


Oh, Love.

by great_turkey_calamity



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Alex gets food poisoning, Alex is a preschool teacher, Angst, Arthur is alive and well, Crying, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings Realization, First Meetings, Fluff and Smut, Henry is a children’s author, Henry is such a nurturer and a lover, M/M, NSFW, Not Beta Read, Philip actually becomes a good person, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, TW: Emetophobia, TW: Manipulation, TW: Panic Attacks, TW: mild dubcon, emotional realizations, henry is engaged to a major douche, henry is pushing Alex away!!, leaving an abusive partner, more tags to come, platonic husbands, please help him lol, runaway groom, take care of yourselves y’all, tw: claustrophobia, tw: gaslighting, tw: mentions of past addiction, tw: toxic relationship, who does not treat him like he deserves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28003248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/great_turkey_calamity/pseuds/great_turkey_calamity
Summary: Henry Fox is twenty-five, and a children’s author. His fiancé is a friend of his brother, and a well-paid dentist. One would assume that he’s happy, or at the very least content.Then he meets Alex Claremont-Diaz, a preschool teacher, and his entire world comes crashing down around him.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 277
Kudos: 234





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> ⚠️ READ MY TWS THIS FIC IS NOT MEANT FOR EVERYONE ⚠️   
> If you are uncomfortable with:  
> \- gaslighting   
> \- manipulation   
> \- discussion of either  
> \- controlling relationships   
> \- issues with chronic/mental health   
> Then this fic is not for you. Stay safe.   
> I know I’ve been writing hella angst lately but I promise to write fluff if people suggest some fluffy prompts lol.  
> That being said, the story will get better as it progresses, I promise lol.
> 
> Happy Reading!!

It’s a little after one in the afternoon when Henry walks into Brooklyn Heights International Preschool. It’s a lovely little institution, walls covered in murals and crafts and chains made of multi-colored construction paper. He wears a visitor’s sticker on his jumper, and holds a copy of his picture book in his arms as he makes his way down one of the hallways, double-checking each room number. Room 026, that’s where he’s supposed to be at the moment. He seems to be drawing close. 020, 022, 024– 026. He steals a breath or two from the world, inhaling, exhaling, then inhaling once again. He summons up the whole of his courage, then gives a tentative set of knocks.   
  


There’s some raucous laughter and conversation occurring from the wee lambs just past the door, and it helps alleviate Henry’s nerves a bit. He isn’t entirely sure why, but he always finds himself nervous right before reading his work aloud; he knows that the kids just love it to death, but he always finds himself wondering what the adults must think of his profession— they likely find it to be unstable, or overly-idealistic. That’s what he’s been told before, at least.  
  


When the door is opened, he is greeted by a shorter man with warm skin and tight curls. He’s wearing a polo shirt and chinos, and his smile makes Henry feel like a fistful of sand has been thrown in his eyes— searing hot, and bright, and painful. 

“Is this Mr. Claremont-Diaz’s classroom?” He asks, timid, already preparing to apologize before he realizes that the man’s smile has widened.

“Please, call me Alex. You must be Henry Fox, right?”

Henry grins. “That I am. Sorry for being late— I had a bit of trouble navigating through.” He explains in a stressed titter.   
  


“No need to apologize, it still happens to me sometimes, and I’ve been workin’ here for two years now,” Mr Claremont-Diaz— Alex— replies with a vague wave of the hand. “The kids are already sitting on the carpet, come on in.” He continues, stepping out of the way and holding the door open for Henry.  
  


“Thank you,” Henry replies, surveying the classroom. The way Alex seems to operate his classroom is different than most he’s visited in the past. Of course, he’d mostly been visiting more upscale nursery schools, before Alex had made a request for Henry to visit— apparently his book has been quite the hit amongst this particular group of students. It had taken a lot of persuasion within Henry’s inner circle to make it happen, but he got the time slot booked to make this happen. There’s a group of children all sitting on the circular rug in the center of the room; there’s a book organizer to the left, and a word wall to the right. For a pre school, Henry thinks they’re giving the children one hell of a head start in the literary department. 

The children are all shrieking with joy and laughter, playing games and holding conversations and being little menaces towards one another. Henry thinks that it’s absolutely precious. It makes him fidget with the engagement band on his left ring finger— perhaps he’ll have a few of his own sometime soon.

“ _¡Estén tranquilos, mis bebés!_ ” Alex announces, and a hush falls over the room. “Now, I know we all loved the book I read you last week—“

“ _¡La Aldea!_ ” A little girl with glasses and double buns pipes up from the middle of the rug.

“That’s right, The Village!” Alex replies. “ _Muy bueno,_ Ximena.” He praises, giggling when the little girl smiles. “Today, I brought in the author— _autor, en Español_ — of The Village to read his book to us!” He announces, gesturing for Henry to take a seat. “Say hello to Mister Henry!”

Henry is met with a chorus of sweet, angelic ‘ _hello’s,_ and he can’t fight back the smile that splits his face. Some of the children scoot closer. One of the children— a little boy with a mane of coils and gapped teeth— holds out his arms for Alex to hold him.   
  


“C’mere, Javi.” Alex whispers, picking the boy up and holding him on his hip, smiling and giving Henry a curt nod, encouraging him to go ahead and begin telling the story. He’s only briefly made mentally aware that he’s never seen a teacher so close to their students before; he wonders how he manages to have such a calming effect on the children.

Henry opens the picture book, holds it out to the sea of toddlers, and starts up. This was an insanely important project to him, especially when he first began writing it, and the fact that he gets to share it to a group of children who might need it just as much as he did— it really warms him up, from the inside out.  
  


As soon as he finishes up, Alex announces that it’s time to go outside for recess.

“You guys are gonna go outside with Miss Amy’s class today, okay?” He tells them, setting Javi down and watching as he scurries off to find his place in line. “I want you all on your best behavior— be nice to each other!” He tells them, mouthing a wordless _‘thank you_ ’ to Amy, the teacher next door, as she comes to collect them, taking them out to the playground to get their energy out for the next half-hour.

The door shuts and Alex turns to Henry. He’s quite the character: long eyelashes, well-loved shoes, and calloused hands covered in tiny flecks of washable paint. Completely unique, unlike anyone Henry has ever met before.  
  


“Thank you _so_ much for comin’ out today,” Alex tells him, moving from leaning against the door to sitting at one of the larger tables in the room. “I know you’re probably very busy, and my kids just _love_ your book.”

Henry smiles, still feeling timid, not used to such direct compliments of his work. “Oh, it isn’t any trouble at all. I enjoy taking any chance I get to read my works to children. The fact that you run such an inclusive classroom is absolutely brilliant.”

Alex chuckles. “I’m glad that you think so.” He admits, clearing his throat before speaking up again. “So, how did you come up with the idea for The Village?”

Henry takes a seat in front of Alex, setting the book on the table. “Well, it’s been something that was brewing in my mind ever since I was sixteen; that’s when I had come out to my family,” He explains. “My, uhm, my grandmother and my brother weren’t supportive, at first. Not in the slightest. When you’re a child, that sort of just— it eats away at you, you know?”

“Of course,” Alex replies with a solemn shake of the head, as if he’s trying to imagine these circumstances, but finds himself overwhelmed by the hypothetical pain. Empathetic. “My own experience wasn’t too bad, but I’ve heard stories, and they’ve left left me speechless. Left me in tears.”  
  


“I can imagine so.” Henry replies. “Unfortunately, that’s the case for some people.” He acknowledges. “I have a good friend who came out around the same time I did— it was that way with him.” He comments, continuing. “When things would get exceptionally difficult for myself, I would hop on the tube, and I’d ride from Queens to Manhattan. I’d go down to Greenwich Village, and sit on a bench on Christopher Street, and just watch all the people that came passing through. Living life the way the wanted, unafraid and happy. And I’d write it down in my journal, draw people that stood out to me,” He explains, taking a breath.   
  


“So the village in the story is just Greenwich Village?” Alex asks with a quirked brow.

“Pretty much, yes.” Henry laughs softly. “A few people I’ve had interactions with are in there. I just— it’s so important to me that children are able to feel seen in a way that I wasn’t. That’s why I wrote it, really.”  
  


Fondness sparkles in Alex’s eyes. “I couldn’t possibly agree more. I teach two classes here— in the mornings, it’s the Hasidic Jewish kids from Williamsburg that have only known Yiddish up until my class. You’ve already seen my crowd from Washington Heights,” He chuckles. “As you can imagine, they aren't introduced to many new perspectives at home. Very traditional communities and families. As a teacher, as a person, I feel like I need to show them that while it is completely alright to do what their parents have envisioned for them, they’re also allowed to go down their own road, you feel me?” Alex continues. “It’s okay to be yourself, and to do whatever’s best for you.”

Henry finds that he quite likes Alex. “I think you’ve got it just right,” He tells him, beaming. “I’ll tell you what— I’m having a book signing this weekend in Manhattan. We print in just about every language; I’ll probably have to hunt for a Yiddish one, but I can hold a few copies for you, if you’d like.”

“Really?” Alex asks, and there he is again, his grin swallowing up the whole of his face. Another fistful of sand in Henry’s eyes. “That would be wonderful.”

“Of course— it’s clear to me that you’re passionate about inclusivity in the classroom, it wouldn’t be any trouble.”  
  


Alex rummages around for a moment or so, finding a pen, and a sheet of yellow craft paper that’s been maimed by a pair of scissors. “Where, when, and what time?”  
  


Henry tells him the address, going slow as he watches him write the information down. “We’ll be there next Saturday from nine to one; if you’re unable to attend, just give me a ring. Here’s my number.” He offers, pulling out his own pen, jotting down his cellphone number in a messy scrawl of digits and dashes. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket; he’s already running late. He’s sure that Eric won’t be too happy with him. “I hope to see you there.”

Alex’s lips turn up at the corners, an easygoing smirk. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

Henry finds himself smiling as well. “I suppose so,” He replies, grabbing his book, rising up and making his way towards the door. Nearly forgetting his manners, he turns back. “Have a good day,”

“You, too. Take care.”

And with that, Henry leaves the room, feeling just a bit lighter as he makes his way out to the car.

  
The drive from Brooklyn Heights to Carnegie Hill is forty minutes long. This gives Henry a lot of time to reflect on his day, and what he’s managed to get done.

His list goes a little like this:

  
1\. He woke up, got dressed, and made the bed.

  
2\. He ate breakfast with Eric; Eric was the one that cooked this morning.

  
3\. He did the dishes and made Eric’s lunch.   
  
4\. He gave Eric a kiss before he left for work. 

  
5\. He watered all the house plants.

  
6\. He swept and mopped the floors.

  
7\. He did some dusting and organizing. 

  
8\. Eric called him while he was on his break, and they talked for a good twenty-five minutes. 

  
9\. He did some more cleaning, before getting ready to go.

  
10\. He read his book— that he worked so hard to get published— to a preschool classroom.

And finally:

  
11\. He made it home, he’s late, but he got home nonetheless.

Henry makes his way into the lobby of the apartment building, and waves hello to Shaan, who’s making his way out of the building. He lives in the apartment across the way from himself and Eric, with his wife Zahra. They’re perfect for each other, all dry wit and maturity and subtle sarcasm. He makes the effort to talk to them as much as possible; Eric doesn’t find maintaining neighborly relationships to be as important as he does.

He holds his breath and grabs onto the railing as he ascends in the elevator, floor by floor. He always feels a bit queasy, riding in it, but he’d rather not climb up the stairs to the top floor every single day. His breath escapes him as he makes his way out, navigating through the hallway and around the corner; their apartment and the Srivastavas’ are tucked away from the rest of the floor. Secluded, and just a bit suffocating.

Stealing another breath and shutting his eyes, Henry summons the mental strength to make his way inside. He exhales, opens his eyes, and checks the doorknob. Locked. Rolling his eyes at his fiancé’s petty behavior, he digs through his pockets, finding his keys in the right hand pocket of his cardigan. Pushing the key into the lock and twisting, he enters the apartment, shutting the door behind himself as softly as he can.  
  


Eric isn’t in the living room, but Henry doesn’t find this to be abnormal— not in the slightest. When he’s home, Eric is hardly ever sat in the living room. He’s usually down on the first floor in the gym— he _always_ leaves a note when this is the case— or in the bedroom or office. 

Traipsing through the apartment, Henry switches the lights on as he goes. He’s always felt as if their home doesn’t feel as lived-in as it should; warm lighting tends to do some good. He checks their room first. It’s just as neat and pristine as he left it, sheets and duvet tucked tight, looking sleek and smooth, gauzy white canopy tied to the four posters of their bed. Meticulously cleaned, and not a hair out of place. He shuts the door, and makes his way down to the office, knocking on the door.

He lets himself inside the room after being given permission to enter, and sees Eric sitting at his desk. This isn’t entirely uncommon, either. He likes to sit there to annotate his itinerary for the week, scratching off appointments, reorganizing and adding more of them, filling whatever blocks of time he has free. 

If Henry had to describe him in three words, he’d probably go with the stereotypical tall, dark, and handsome. With sharp features, black tousled waves, and a peppering of stubble across his jaw, it hadn’t taken Henry long to fall for his now-fiancé. He’s one of Philip’s good mates, they’d met at Columbia; Eric had been an international student, and Henry’s entire family had moved to the U.S. for a change of scenery. This makes him five years Henry’s senior; it surprises Henry, the fact that so many people care about how much older his fiancé is.

A few months after he’d turned eighteen, Eric had begun showing his interest in subtle ways— a hand on the small of his back, shoulder massages after a long day of swimming down at Southampton Beach, always lapsing behind with Henry to talk to him privately. They’d kissed for the first time that June, and from there, it felt like everything had happened all at once. There had been couple of mild spats within the family; his father had banned them from being alone together, at one point. By that Christmas, they were absolutely inseparable. Eight months ago, they’d been going through a bit of a rocky phase, and then Eric had popped the question. They’ve been over the moon ever since.

He makes his way over to the desk, standing behind the chair. Wrapping his arms around Eric’s shoulders, he bends down, pressing a kiss to his crown of hair. He feels long, spindly fingers rubbing up his arms, and he sighs. “I missed you today, love.” He mumbles.  
  


Eric hums, not doing much in terms of acknowledgement, leaning back into Henry’s touch. Henry’s mind immediately begins to race; the apartment is clean, they had more than enough time to talk to each other today, he’s even wearing the outfit that was laid out for him this morning— is Eric truly that upset with him for coming home late?

”I’m sorry I’m home a little later than usual,” He apologizes preemptively, getting it out of the way right away. “Traffic was absolutely dreadful.”

”Maybe traffic wouldn’t have been so dreadful if you’d made an effort to leave the venue in a more punctual fashion,” Eric points out. “Just a thought.”

Henry had forgotten about his fiancé’s ability to track his phone. It doesn’t happen often, only if he’s out on his own or running late. It helps put Eric at ease, knowing where he is all the time. They’d agreed to it on mutual grounds about a year and a half ago; Henry has no problem with it.

”I got held up by the teacher— he was asking quite a few questions.” He tells him, thinking back to a painfully bright smile and a soft, nurturing whisper.

”You've got to start standing up for yourself,” Eric tells him. “I can’t be there to interject on your behalf all the time. You need to start making more of an effort, Henry.”

He decides to bite his tongue on that one, not looking for an argument, racking his brain for a new topic of conversation. “How was work today, hmm?”

“Oh, alright, I suppose. Just like any other day,” Eric mutters, looking through one of Henry’s journals, seemingly alright with the conversational shift. “Got to put veneers on a patient today— don’t do that too often.”

“Well, isn’t that exciting?” Henry replies, leaning forward to try and see what he’s reading, but to no avail. “What’s that you’ve got your eyes on?”  
  


“Oh, just some of your concepts for your silly little books.” Eric replies, chuckling as he turns the page.

Henry feels his heart sink. Eric truly doesn’t understand the effort he puts into his writing. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh nothing, lovely,” Eric breathes, sounding as if the query has greatly exhausted. “Just the beginning of a conversation we’ve had a hundred times before.”

“I’m not getting a desk job so long as my work’s selling,” Henry replies in a cheery sing-song voice, pecking each side of Eric’s face. Most would say that his fiancé is being inconsiderate, but Henry knows better than that— he’s just worried, doesn’t want Henry to be embarrassed or upset when— _if_ — his work fails. “Like anything you see on there?”

“Hmm,” Eric replies, eyes scanning the list. “I quite like the one with the prince and the knight, but it’s a bit overdone, don’t you think?” He asks, stormy grey eyes peering up.

“I mean, I suppose, but it never hurts to have representation,” Henry tells him. “And it’s different, the way I’m thinking it over in my head. Sure, the knight ‘ _saves_ ‘ him in the end, but the prince isn’t just a damsel in distress. He stands his ground and tries his best to get out of the tower on his own, several times, in fact.”

“So he’s a fighter, then?” Eric muses.

“Exactly.”

“Well, it seems you’ve got another bestseller on your hands,” Eric sighs, something unreadable in his smile, his brows furrowed. Henry kisses the space between them, but they don’t relax. “Congratulations.”

“Mmm, thank you.” Henry replies. “I’ll make us millions. We’ll never have to work again.” He proposes, and Eric spins around in his chair. He places his hands on Henry’s hips, squeezing them. Protective. Grounding.

“What on _Earth_ would we do with so much spare time?” He asks, grinning up at Henry.

“Why, whatever we want, of course.” Henry quips in response, ignoring what’s been implied. “That’s sort of the point of never working again.”

“As much as I like the sound of that,” Eric pauses, eyes raking over Henry. “I think we both know that won’t ever happen.”

Henry groans. “I know, but can’t a man _dream_ every once in a while?”

“To dream is to dabble in naivety,” Eric tells him. “Which _you_ tend to do quite a bit.”

Something about that stings. Henry retracts into himself, moving away from Eric, who’s got his hand held out.

“Your phone, please.” He instructs, put off by Henry’s sudden discomfort, closing in on him. This tends to be the sequence of events anytime Henry ‘ _starts acting odd_ ’.   
  


He has to fight the urge to roll his eyes as he slips his cellphone into Eric’s hand. He still doesn’t know why he insists on doing this— especially when he knows that Henry has absolutely nothing to hide. It’s easier to just hand over his phone than to start a fight, though. He’s learned that the hard way at least a million times, now.  
  


Eric scrolls through his text messages, deleting conversations until he’s content, handing his phone back. Henry immediately opens his contacts, looking through them.

“Why do you keep deleting Pez from my phone?” He asks. “Every time I get my phone back from you, I end up having to put his number back in.”

“Well, maybe if you weren’t so thick, you'd realize that I don’t want you talking to Percy, now wouldn’t you?”

Henry flounders. He genuinely doesn’t know what to say in response to this.

“Excuse me?” He settles on, moving back a few steps when Eric rises from his chair.

“Oh, don't play _stupid_ with me, Henry,” Eric sneers, and Henry can feel his pulse racing. “You heard what I said.”

“ _Don’t_ speak to me like that,” Henry tells him, face burning and hands trembling.   
  


“I’ll speak to you any way I like, so _watch your mouth,”_ Eric warns, and Henry swears that the room starts to spin. “And if I find out that you’ve added Percy back into your phone, you and I are going to have issues. Am I understood?”

Henry doesn’t respond, too thrown by such a sudden change in attitude and emotion to articulate his thoughts properly. His nails dig into the desk he’s leaning against, leaving marks in the antique wood. Whether he’s on the verge of fainting or crying, he is uncertain. All he knows is that he wants this to end as quickly as possible. 

“I _said_ ,” Eric repeats himself, stepping closer. “Am I _understood?_ ”

Feeling suffocated, Henry wills himself to say something, anything. “Yes,” He whispers. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good,” Eric responds, righting himself as he approaches Henry, bringing a hand up to his cheek, caressing it with a tender, intimate sort of touch. “Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

“Yes,” Henry croaks, unable to bring himself to meet his gaze. 

“Oh dear,” Eric says, low and quiet. “I’ve gone and upset you, haven’t I?”

“‘S not your fault,” Henry quickly supplies, resisting the urge to pull back and away.

“I know, but I should have taken into account how sensitive you can get.” Eric sighs. That certainly doesn’t feel like the case, but he doesn’t argue with him. “What can I do to make it better, hmm?”

“I—“ Henry stumbles over his words, brain submerged in a thick haze of fog. “I think I need some quiet time to myself for a while.”

“Maybe a nap?” Eric suggests.

“Maybe,” Henry amends. Agreeing with him is the one thing keeping him stable right now.

“Would you like me to come back and tuck you in?” Eric asks, smoothing his hair into place. “You seemed awfully tired when you came home today.”  
  


Henry doesn’t have the current mental capacity to check him on that. “If you want to.”

He lets Eric direct him to their room, lets him help in the process of getting ready to lie down, lets him do whatever in the hell he wants, just to quicken the process of getting himself alone.

“I’ll be back in thirty minutes to check on you, alright darling?” Eric says from the doorway.

“Alright,” Is Henry’s response, facing away from him. He’s practically vibrating with the amount of emotion he’s feeling right now.

“Do try to get some rest, now.” Eric advises, leaving the room and shutting the door behind himself.

As soon as the definitive ‘ _click_ ’ is heard, accompanied by the soft thud of feet against hardwood flooring, the floodgates burst open, and Henry begins to cry.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alex and Henry get coffee, and Eric and Henry do some wedding planning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder to read the TWs and be mindful of your mental health!!  
> Also, fuck Eric 👊

Another week has come and gone, filled with mundane tasks and words that sting like a bad sunburn. Nothing too bad, just Eric lacking in sensitivity at times. Henry’s tried his best to stay out of his way since last Friday, focusing all his energy on his writing whilst locked in the office; Eric doesn’t particularly enjoy it when he locks doors, but sometimes he just needs to breathe— to be left to his own devices for a while. When he’s not writing, he’s cleaning on the opposite end of the apartment from his fiancé. The only times they’ve seen each other this week is at meals and in bed. It’s almost as if he’s living with a ghost.   
  


Today— Saturday— he’s finally got a chance to leave the apartment, to get some fresh air. He’s sat inside Rizzoli Bookstore on Broadway, signing copies of The Village for parents and teachers alike. It always boggles his mind, how he finds himself in situations like these. He never imagined one of his books being so popular; he’d always figured that Eric would be right in his assumptions, that he’d only sell a couple hundred copies and have to move on to a more sensible career. That people weren’t ready to teach their children about inclusivity and identities and diversity. That he’s wasting his time. His breath. His thoughts. Yet, here he is, at his own book signing, tossing out an old pen for a fresh one. 

He feels quite surprised that Alex hasn’t shown up as one in the afternoon draws near. Henry can’t help but wonder if he’s forgotten, or if he’s made the conscientious decision to not come. It’s not like it’s his business or anything— Alex has every right not to come if he doesn’t want to— Henry had just been looking forward to seeing a familiar face, is all.

The line has dwindled down into nothing, by the time Alex comes barreling inside. He looks frazzled— askew curls, glasses sliding down his nose, breathing labored. He scans the bookstore twice over, eyes widening when they make contact with Henry’s. He quickly makes his way over, weaving around people as they make their own journeys through the shop. 

Up close, Henry can see just how stressed he is, how he seems to have gotten here in a rush. He’s got on a wrinkled hoodie, jeans, and a ratty pair of sneakers. There’s a backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks like he’s ready to fall over, with the way he’s teetering about. It’s concerning, to say the least.

“I’m _so_ sorry I’m late,” Alex sighs, taking an extraordinarily deep breath before continuing. “I got on the wrong subway, didn’t realize until it’d left the station. Next train wasn’t leaving for another thirty minutes, so I— _phew_ — I ran here.” He explains.

Henry bites back a noise of shock. Alex could have just told him— he has his phone number. “Ran here from _where_ , exactly?” He questions.

“Wall Street,” Alex wheezes, chuckling. “I ran from Wall Street to Broadway.”

“Christ, that’s a _thirty minute_ run!” Henry replies, in complete shock and disbelief.

“I know,” Alex breathes, and Henry’s rifling around in his bag for a bottle of water. When he holds it out to him, he shakes his head. “‘M fine, thanks.”

Henry feels oddly responsible for putting him in this position, so he becomes insistent. “Come now, don't need you fainting on me,” He insists, a gentle, yet assertive push in the right direction.

After some prolonged eye contact, Alex does, in fact, accept the bottle of water, taking several long sips from it. “How did the signing go?” He asks, and it takes Henry aback; he doesn’t get asked about his day very often. His family doesn’t call or text often enough, and Eric gets so wound up in everything else that he often forgets to do so. It’s refreshing, honestly. 

“Better than I expected, really.” He admits, grabbing the two copies he’d set aside for Alex— printed in Spanish and Yiddish— and opening up the front covers to their title pages. “I never expect so many people to want copies of my work. I honestly don’t see it as the best piece of literature out there.” He chuckles. 

“I think,” Alex starts, pausing to take another sip of water. “That you have the most extraordinary way with words. It’s a little ridiculous, how good you are at writing. I know that your primary focus is with children’s books, but I think you could really make strides with a novel.”

Henry goes bashful, face turning red. “Oh, you don’t really mean that.”

“I do,” Alex contends, smiling brightly. “One hundred percent.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to bloody start with a novel,” He scoffs, shaking his head as he scrawls his signature on both tile pages, shutting the books and setting one on top of another. “Picture books— they're quite formulaic in layout, as well as in arc. I go into my office to work, and I already know how everything will play out. Writing novels is completely alien to me. I’m afraid I’d mess it all up.”

“Well, how do you know you'd mess it up, if you’ve never even tried it?” Alex points out, brow arched in a way that suggests a certain kind of smugness that somehow manages to leave Henry’s chest and stomach all knotted; it doesn’t feel wrong though. It’s there, then it’s gone. 

“I—“ Henry begins, sighing and grinning when he realizes that he can’t back his way out of this one with excuses. “I suppose I can’t.”

“There we are,” Alex hums, taking off his backpack, unzipping it, and tucking the picture books into his laptop sleeve, before zipping it shut and hoisting it back up onto his shoulders. “I thought so; you should give it a try.”

“I’m currently working on another children’s book— it’s in the very early stages,” He explains, gesturing about with his hands. “We’ll see after that, though.” He decides, not liking the glimmer of mischief in Alex’s eyes. “I’m not making any promises. If it doesn’t work out, I’d rather not be reprimanded.”

“Of course not,” Alex replies, tone reassuring. “I’m not sure who you take me for, Mister Fox. I like to think I’m quite the gentleman.” He replies, mocking Henry’s accent in a way that makes him laugh— unfiltered and ugly. 

“ _Mister Fox?_ ” He finds himself asking, placing the cap back onto the pen, setting it down on the table as he props his arm up on it, head leaning into his hand. “Why such formality?”

“I just told you— I am the best gentleman in Washington Heights.”

“Oh are you, now?” He giggles, entertaining Alexander. Perhaps that look in his eyes isn’t as intimidating and dangerous as he’d thought it was just a few moments before; Alex is funny— very much so.

“Oh yeah, had a whole competition and everything,” He continues, and Henry finds himself wondering how long he’ll keep up the joke. “It was tough, but I scraped by.”

“What was your prize?” Henry prompts, and Alex hums, cracking the joints in his fingers.

“Just the title, which I wear like a badge of honor.” He replies, winking. 

“How unfortunate,” Henry states, shoving the remains of his supplies into his work bag, writing a quick message to the people at his publishing company on a sticky note, laying it down right in the center of the table. “Surely it’s deserving of something a bit bigger than that.”

“Such as?”

“A trophy,” Henry suggests, rising up from his seat with his things. “Perhaps a medal.”

Alex snorts. “You kill me,” He exaggerates, smiling and shaking his head. “Where’re you headed off to?”

“Just the café down the street. Want to try and get some work done.”

“Mind if I tag along?” Alex asks him, coming off a little shy. “I’ve gotta put my lesson plan together for next week.”

“Not at all,” Henry responds, grinning. “It would be lovely to have a bit of company. I tend to let the perfectionist in me go too far.” He explains.

“God, I feel that.” Alex responds with a huff of soft laughter.

And with that, they make their way out of the bookstore and down the street to the little café. Henry gets a citrus tea. Alex gets coffee— Henry finds it charming that he asks for cinnamon to be put in it. They take their seats, and waste no time in getting down to business.

Despite being elbow-deep in journals and planners, they manage to learn quite a bit about each other. For instance: Alex is far more intelligent than he lets on. He comes off as carefree and laid back— playing the part of some charismatic, youthful child of Apollo you'd be most likely to see in a dark, crowded room with loud voices and colorful lights. And he plays it rather well, until Henry starts digging deeper, starts listening to what he’s saying instead of taking it at face value. Sets his pencil down and pushes his laptop away as he listens to the way he lists the differences in Montessori and public schooling. Alex apologizes for rambling, but Henry assures him that he’s just fine, because he is. He’s more than fine. He’s passionate— in a way that Henry has never seen in anyone else before.

He’s just got such unique qualities that stand out so strongly to Henry; the way he color-codes and highlights his lesson plans. The fact that when he runs out of space, he writes in every possible margin before flipping the page. The fact that he can just barely see the soft shimmer of silver metal as his tongue darts out in concentration. The way his eyelashes curl and touch the glass of his spectacles. Henry’s deduced that he’s quite fun to draw, sketching his plush, short frame and curls as a warmup, then Eric’s towering, Herculean figure. He isn’t entirely sure why he’s comparing the two of them, but he thinks that they couldn’t possibly be more different. 

Alex learns quite a bit about him as well. For example, he learns where Henry’s actually from:

“That’s quite the strong accent,” He’d noted, taking a strong sip of his coffee. “Doesn’t surprise me that you’re from Queens. Let me guess— Flushing?” He’d gone on to ask, joking around.

“Yeah, actually.” Henry has admitted, laughing when Alex had gasped.

“Well, look at _me_ go!” He’d said, smiling when Henry scrubs over his face with his palm.

“Can I let you in on a secret?” Henry asks in a barely-audible whisper, leaning over the table and catching Alex’s attention. “Promise not to tell a soul?”

“I can keep a secret,” Alex had replied just as softly, elbows on the table as he leans in. “Spill.”

“I’m not actually from New York.”

Alex pulled back in mock-terror, pressing a hand to his chest, aghast expression playing at his features as he had tried desperately not to smile.

“No fucking way,” He’d breathed, and Henry had thought that he’d make an excellent actor. “Where are you actually from?”

“London,” Henry responds, breath catching in his throat as his shoulders shake with laughter. “Well, that's where I’d spend my school years. My mother and her family are from France, so we’d spend our summers and school holidays in Toulouse— that’s the city she grew up in.”

“That’s so wild,” Alex had mused, seemingly riveted by this wealth of new information. “What made your family decide to come to the United States?”

“My parents were looking for better job opportunities and a change in scenery,” He explained. “My mother’s an English professor at NYU, and my father works in the theatre department at Juilliard.”

Their conversation had gone on and on from there, and Alex had pointed out a multitude of things about Henry; the fact that his hands shake constantly, the way he bites his lips when he comes to a plot hole or a tricky bit in his story, that he’s dressed awfully warm for the middle of April. 

It’s not until much later that Alex notices the ring on his left hand.

“You’re married?” Alexander questions, something uncertain in his eyes.

Henry beams, shaking his head. “Engaged. Getting married towards the end of June.”

Alex smiles. “Tell me about the lucky guy.”

Henry takes the opportunity to gush about Eric, telling Alex everything and anything that he can think of. 

“We’d been dating for six years before he’d asked me, and Christ, it was beautiful,” He says, fidgeting with the band of his left ring finger. “Proposed to me in the exact same place we’d had our first kiss.”

“That’s precious,” Alex acknowledges, voice pleasant and oozing with a sort of softness that Henry had never heard from him. “How did you two meet?”

“He’s a friend of my older brother, they went to uni together.”

“Brother's best friend,” Alex says in a teasing voice. “That’s hot.”

Henry snorts, shaking his head. 

“What does he do for a living?” Alex inquires.

“He’s a dentist, has his own practice and everything.”  
  


Alex raises his eyebrows. “Dentist?” He double-checks, humming when Henry nods in confirmation. “I’m guessing he’s a couple years older, then?”

“Turned thirty this past November,” Henry confirms, awaiting the backlash.

“I’m not so sure I believe the ‘ _brother’s best friend’_ story,” Alex tells him, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Henry can see something lingering— it seems to be concern. “Sure you didn’t meet him on _Seeking Arrangements?_ ” He snarks, and Henry can’t help the way his head tips back with laughter.

It takes him a moment or two to recover and catch his breath, and when he does, Alex is laughing, too. 

“Oh, I’m fairly sure,” He sighs, wiping wetness from his eyes. “Can’t say I’ve gotten that one before.”

“I guess I’m just full of surprises, then.” Alex deduces.

“That you are.”

“A toast,” Alex proposes. “To marriage, and _Seeking Arrangements._ ”

Henry wheezes, lifting up his own to-go cup and touching it to Alexander’s. “To marriage, and _Seeking Arrangements._ ” He echoes, taking great satisfaction in the proud smile on Alex’s face.

When he gets home, Eric is sitting at the dining room table, flipping through his address book and adding names to a sheet of paper.

“Hey,” Henry calls out to him from the entryway, already having deposited his things in their room. He inches his way into the room, taking a seat across from him at the table. 

“Hello, my lovely.” Eric sighs beneath his breath, scanning the page before flipping it.

Henry sits, and he waits.

After several long, agonizing minutes, it becomes very apparent that Eric has zero plans to ask him how the book signing went.

“What are you doing?” He asks, brushing away his building emotions like he’s sweeping dust up off the floor.

“Just making a few last minute notes about what I’d like for the wedding.”

“Can I see, please?” He questions, pulling the paper towards himself, carefully reading each bulletpoint. “This— uhm— this is quite a few more people than we’d planned on inviting.” He chuckles uneasily, hoping that Eric had simply gotten a little carried away, a wee bit overzealous in his planning. 

“Well, it’s supposed to be one of the most important days of our lives, as you already know,” Eric starts, clearing his throat. “What’s the trouble in inviting a few more friends?”

“A few is three or four,” Henry tells him. “This has to be at _least_ twenty more people on your side than we’d originally planned on. What happened to keeping it small?” He asks. He's only met the majority of these people once or twice— hell, he doesn’t even remember some of them. 

“I’m just showing you another option; what’s got you so worked up?” Eric asked, facial expression contorting into one of concern. 

Henry knows that his confusion is externally visible. “I’m not, I just don’t understand why you suddenly want to change plans that have already been set in stone for months.” He rephrases, just in case his tone was interpreted as rude or agitated. 

“And I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal about it,” Eric replies, tone sounding quite exasperated. “You’ve met everyone on this list several times over, and they've all enjoyed your company. Would it really be such a crime to invite them to our wedding?” He continues. “I don’t think that even half of them will actually show up because of work.”

Henry takes a long, deep breath. He notices all the little ways he’s holding onto the stress within him— his clenched jaw, his tense shoulders, his tight fists— he has to take a few seconds to calm himself down. He uses this time to consider what Eric’s just told him. It seems to mean quite a bit to him, and it’s not actively hurting anyone to invite a few more people. Sure, he’ll probably have to talk to his doctor about getting on some anxiety medication before the wedding, but he’ll be fine. 

Eric takes one of his hands in both of his, uncurling his fingers and rubbing life back into his palm from where his nails had been digging in.

“I suppose I was overreacting just a bit,” Henry amends. He still isn’t quite sure how, but he has trouble controlling his attitude at times. It’s been an issue in the past, between the two of them. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright lovely, I know this wedding business brings you quite a bit of stress,” Eric replies, kissing the back of his hand. “I can’t blame you for getting a little bit testy.” He chuckles, and Henry feels his face flush in humiliation and embarrassment.

“Christ, I’m sorry.” He apologizes, and Eric shushes him, kissing his hand once again. “You’re right— go ahead and invite them.”

“Thank you,” His fiancé replies, smile wavering. “There’s, uhm, there’s something else I wanted to consult with you about.”  
  


“What, darling?” He asks, willing to listen, trying to push this sudden rise in emotions off to the side for the sake of healthy communication. 

“We’ve spoken about this before, and you weren’t a fan,” Eric warns. 

“It’s alright,” Henry assures him, trying his best to keep eye contact. “If you'd like to talk about it, then I’m more than ready to hear whatever it is that you have to say.”

“I want to get married in a church.” Eric tells him.

Henry’s pulse immediately races, and he purses his lips, trying to keep his face neutral, not wanting to risk any responses that show how he feels too soon. “And why is that, exactly?” He asks, choosing to start fresh instead of re-hashing old arguments. 

“Well, you know how my family is, lovely,” Eric reminds him, grips on Henry’s hands tightening. “They're very godly people. Very traditional in their beliefs. Do you really think they're going to come all the way from Manchester to watch us get married at the bloody Foundry?” He scoffs. “They’d, quite literally, rather stay at home than do that.”

“Why is this just now being brought up when we’ve already reserved the Foundry for the date of our wedding?” Henry asks, confused once again. “We settled on the venue together ages ago, darling. I hope it isn’t too late to cancel.” He comments, and Eric rolls his eyes.

“The attitude isn’t needed, thank you very much.” He says, and Henry feels several things bubbling up inside all at once, holding it all back.

“I’m not giving you any attitude, I’m just stating facts.” Henry replies, pulling his hands away. “There’s only two months until the wedding, and you’re making all of these changes to what I assumed was a completely finished plan. First, you’re inviting people that I don’t even bloody know to the ceremony, then you’re insisting on getting married in a church— even though you know that I haven’t been to one since _your_ best man, my bloody _brother_ , told me that I was going to hell immediately after coming out.” He reminds his fiancé, face going bright red as he tries to keep his tone neutral, agitation overwhelming him completely. “We’re not getting married in a church, and that’s final.”

Eric’s face contorts once again, into an expression of disdain and shock. “Oh?” He replies, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Is that the case, then?”

“Yes it is.” Henry replies, taking slow, cleansing breaths.

“Then I suppose we won’t be getting married at all, then.”

Shock flows through Henry, making him jolt as if he’s been zapped with electricity. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, there’s no point in us wasting the money on the reception, venue fees, and the guests, if nobody from my family is going to show up because you’re too stubborn to make a damn compromise.”

“I’m not being _stubborn_ , you—“ Henry starts, but Eric cuts him off.

“Don’t even try to pin this on me,” He spits, making Henry flinch. “You’ve done absolutely nothing except throw fits and make snide remarks since you’ve been home. I knew I was in for a bloody treat as soon as you slammed the door and came flouncing in.” He remarks, and Henry has been stunned into silence. “I don’t think you fully realize just how embarrassed it makes me when you act like this— like a child.”

Henry doesn’t know how to react in a way that won’t backfire on him, so he just sits there and takes it. Lets Eric rant about how the way he’s behaving is surprisingly selfish, and that he should be absolutely ashamed in himself. And he is, staring up at the ceiling to keep tears from streaming down his face. 

“Look at me.”

Henry clenches his eyes shut so tight that it hurts.

“Henry James Fox, you are to look at me when I am speaking to you,” Eric tells him, tone giving no room to disobey. “Open your eyes, right this second.”

As soon as he opens his eyes again, his vision is obscured by tears.  
  


“Why are you crying?” Eric interrogates.

Henry doesn’t answer, body shaking as he hiccups and gasps, wiping his tears away.

“Answer me.” Eric commands.

“I don’t know,” He replies, and it’s the truth. He doesn’t know how the conversation managed to get out of hand so quickly, and he certainly doesn’t know why he felt it was appropriate to burst into tears, like some hysterical hot mess.

“Is the venue really that big of a deal to you?” Eric replies, tone disapproving. “That you’re going to throw a tantrum and cry until you get your way?”

“I don’t _care_ at this point, Eric.” Henry groans, sniffling, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes in an attempt to get the tears to stop.

“You clearly do, if you’re willing to make _such_ a scene over it.”  
  


“I really don’t.”

“Look me in the eyes and say it, then.”

Henry sighs, then shudders, putting his hands down and giving his vision a minute to clear up. Eric looks unamused, like he’s been running on empty for aeons and yet another unfortunate obstacle has materialized in front of him.

“We can get— get married in a church,” He tells him, hiccuping. “I really don’t mind.”

“Promise?” Eric asks him, and Henry fully gives in.

“I promise.”

“Alright, if you’re sure, then.” Eric replies, moving closer to Henry. “Come here.”

He wraps his arms around Henry. Tight and cold. Being held usually comforts him right away— it doesn’t this time. Not at all. 

“Perhaps you should take a few days off from working,” Eric tells him, smoothing his hair down. “You’ve been quite stressed as of lately.”

Henry just wants to be taken care of right now, willing to do whatever he’s told. 

“Alright,” He mumbles, words muffled against his fiancé’s jumper. “I’ll take a few days off from writing.”

The light from his phone bites through the darkness as Henry receives a notification at 2:58AM. His body aches as he reaches for it, fumbling around on the nightstand until he finds it, taking more effort than he’d like to admit to keep it held up. Eric had insisted on the two of them making up properly, and he’d had no problem with that, but the true extent of his aches and pains are starting to catch up to him. It had lasted quite a while, and he didn’t finish, but he was so exhausted that he didn’t really care at that point. 

He swipes up to unlock his phone, and checks his notifications— a text from an unknown number.

**Hey, this is Alex,** it reads. **I had a really fun time today— definitely the highlight of my week.**

He thinks back to earlier in the day; just the two of them, working and holding conversation and cracking jokes. He doesn’t remember the last time that he laughed that hard.

_**I had fun too**_ , he replies, __**and the same goes for me. We’ll have to meet up again sometime soon.  
  
**

He turns off his phone after sending the message, and feels Eric stir, nuzzling against his neck.

“Why were you on the phone?” He croaks, and Henry shushes him, kissing the top of his head. If he knew the true story, Henry doesn’t imagine he’d take it well.

“It was just someone who had the wrong number, darling.” He soothes, lying through his teeth. “Go back to sleep.”

“‘Mkay. Love you.” Eric slurs sleepily, getting comfortable once again.

Henry finds himself staring up at the ceiling, playing back the day in its entirety within his mind.

“I love you, too.”


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER HAS THE MOST GRAPHIC DISPLAY OF ABUSE IN THE WHOLE STORY!! DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE:  
> — CLAUSTROPHOBIC   
> — TRIGGERED BY PANIC ATTACKS  
> — TRIGGERED BY BLATANT VERBAL ABUSE
> 
> ADDITIONALLY:  
> There happens to be NSFW in this chapter, I will be adding a dubcon tag, not because Henry is being assaulted, but because he doesn’t enjoy the NSFW. I am considering making him ace in this story.
> 
> FINALLY:  
> Here is the number to the national domestic violence hotline: 1-800-799-7233
> 
> Please, take action if you know of someone who is being abused. And if you’re in an abusive situation, please, *please* tell someone. People have been through what you have been through. People are willing to listen, I promise.
> 
> Take care of yourselves, remember you’re loved, and happy reading. ❤️

The next two weeks are absolutely torturous. Eric keeps pushing him to take more time off from writing to focus on their wedding, which is right around the corner. The month of May has crept up on him, like an odd sight slinking out of the woods at night. Eric’s also told him that he’s worried about him— apparently he’s not acting the same way he used to.   
  


Eric’s suggested that he should start seeing a therapist. Says he’s acting depressed. He isn’t though— he’s just tired. Feels sick and lethargic and overwhelmed, cooped up in this house with nothing to do but run through caterers and go through guest lists. Henry gives in, tells Eric to do whatever he wants. He thinks he’ll go absolutely _mad_ if he has to hear anymore about colors, cake flavors, or bloody seating arrangements. 

It feels pathetic, but he genuinely thinks that one of the only things that have been getting him through this period is his texts with Alex. He never seems to have anything negative to say; he’s always making witty jokes and telling Henry about work and home. He waxes poetic about Texas in a way that makes Henry want to visit, just for the warm air and overall vastness. He loves his family— apparently his sister and her wife live out in Ithaca, four hours away. He always understands when Henry has to rain-check their meetups, always makes the effort to check in and reschedule. It’s nice, helps him through menial tasks like ironing clothes and waxing the floor.

Eric is insistent on ‘ _getting him back to normal’_ , whatever that means. 

“Tell me about your day, lovely.” Eric tells him, kissing his neck, hands on Henry’s waist as he watches him slice mint leaves and red peppers. 

“It’s nothing interesting,” Henry replies immediately, adding both the peppers and the mint to a bowl of salt, lemon juice, oil, and vinegar. He resists the urge to push Eric away from him, feeling claustrophobic as he halves his cherry tomatoes, adding them to the bowl as well. “Nothing you’d like to hear about.”

“Nonsense,” Eric insists, giving him a squeeze. “Of course I'd like to hear about your day.”

“Alright then,” He says in response, combining Greek yoghurt and milk in a smaller bowl, stirring it with a teaspoon. “I did laundry.”

The kitchen goes quiet, and Henry leans over the counter, trying to get away from the unbearable heat of Eric’s breath against his skin.

“What else?” Eric questions, and Henry sighs.

“I watered my plants,” He amends. “That’s it.”

“That’s how you spent your day?” Eric confirms. “Doing laundry?”

“I got behind,” He explains. “I’ve just been so tired, lately, and I had to get it done, so I did it all today.”

Eric hums, and the sound grates on his ears.

“Are you sure you don’t want to—“

“I don’t need a bloody _therapist_ , Eric.” He snaps, not meaning to, setting his knife down on the chopping block with more force than what’s really necessary. “I mean, you’ve only asked me, what, _twenty times_ already? I don’t know how much clearer I can be; I don’t want or _need_ mental help.”

“Well, actions speak louder than words, and your actions indicate that you feel otherwise.” Eric counters.

“I just need to do something other than sit in this apartment all bloody day,” He grumbles, and feels every hair in his body rise and stand on edge when Eric pecks the name of his neck.

“Calm down,” He chides, and Henry’s entire body goes rigid. He feels threatened, and he doesn’t know why. “Everything’s going to be alright. Why don’t you take a break tomorrow, hmm? Go on a walk, get some fresh air?” He suggests. “I think it would really do some good for you.”

Henry takes a few slow, deep breaths, and considers. A long walk could really help him get his frustration out, and could possibly work towards getting his inspiration back. Maybe it’ll help with this nagging anxiety and hazy brain fog he’s had over the past few days— who knows? It certainly won’t hurt.

“I’ll give it a shot,” He decides, and Eric kisses his temple— there’s a fleeting feeling in his chest, then. He isn’t particularly sure if he cares for it or not. “It ought to help me relax.”

“There we go,” Eric praises. “Take as much time as you need, lovely.”

“I will,” Henry replies, leaning back again, into the firmness of his chest and arms. “I certainly will.”

  
That night is the same as any other, Henry still and unmoving, lying on his back as Eric thrusts in and out of him, grunting and groaning. He’s never really cared for the duality of intimacy, finding more satisfaction with his hand than anything between his fiancé’s legs. He finds it’s more uncomfortable and awkward than anything else. Eric seems to like it, however, and that’s enough for him. 

He’s taken to staring at the ceiling and counting as of lately.

One.

His legs, shaking and tense, bracketing Eric’s hips.

Two.

Eric, using one hand to pin both of his own above his head.

Three. 

The bed creaking with every move Eric makes, loud and drawn-out.

Four.

The headboard knocking against the back wall.

Five.

His heartbeat, hammering around in his chest and head.

Six.

Eric shoving his tongue in his mouth, kissing him in a way that knocks the wind out of him; Eric’s mouth is oddly cold.

Seven.

The fact that Eric has let go of his wrists completely.

Eight.  
  


The way that same hand wraps around his throat, squeezing gently. It’s not enough to cut off his air supply, only a subtle amount of pressure.

Nine.

Eric rasping his name, desperate.

Ten.

Eric finishing with a broken moan, pulling out, and disposing of the condom in the bedside waste bin. 

Henry feels sweaty and gross, and wants to get up to take a shower. Eric’s already slithering back into bed, though, pulling him into his chest and holding him. He doesn’t even check to see if he’s finished anymore. It used to anger Eric, the fact that he’d zone out and let his mind wander during, but he’s since gotten used to it. 

“Was it good for you, darling?” He asks, sounding a bit winded, tracing nonsensical patterns along his fiancé’s arm.

“Mmm, yes.” Eric replies, sounding sleepy and satiated. “It was wonderful, lovely.”

Henry feels hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest, and bites it back. “I’m glad.”

The next morning goes as following: Advil, shower, clothes, breakfast, and a kiss goodbye from Eric. He wants to go on that walk later— he really does— but there’s just too much to do around the house. With him working at home, and Eric working from eight to six down at the dental clinic, he ends up doing all the housework. He’s got to set out what they're having for dinner, water his plants, vacuum and sweep, wash the bedding; the list goes on and on. He also has to find the time in his day to get some writing, which sounds like such a draining, horrendous task at the moment.

He’s just transitioned from vacuuming to sweeping when his phone starts going off. He sighs, propping the broom up against the nearest wall, pulling his phone out of the right hand pocket of his cardigan, accepting the call, and holding the phone up to his ear. 

“Hello?” He asks, trying to keep his tone as pleasant and neutral as he can.

“Hey,” Alex replies, and the tension immediately seeps out of him, exiting his body almost immediately. “I’m in my car, send your location.”

He lets out a scoff of laughter. “What on earth for?”

“I’m bustin’ you out, H,” Alex declares, chuckling. “You keep flakin’ on me, so I’m comin’ to get you myself.”

“Oh, really?” Henry says, smiling as he leans against the wall. “I’d love to just drop everything and leave, but I have cleaning to do.”

“That’s an old excuse, and you _know_ it,” Alex teases. “You say that every time. That and ‘ _Eric doesn’t want me to go out._ ’ Well, guess what? I’m comin’ to get you, whether you like it or not.”

“Christ, you’re persistent, aren’t you?” He chuckles. “And it’s _true_ — I do all the housework.”

“Well, let your fiancé pick up the slack for once.” Alex insists.

“I don’t know—“

“What’s he gonna do, _ground you?_ ” Alex continues to tease. “I thought he was your fiancé, not your dad.”

Henry goes to say something, but lets it go. “You are going to be my doom.”

“Of course, that’s what I’m here for.” 

“You’re too much.”

“I know,” Alex replies, voice warm and captivating. “Give in, Henry. Send me your address.”

“Ugh, fine.”

He texts Alex his address, and puts his phone back up to his ear.

“Go ahead and get yourself ready; I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Looking forward to it.” Henry replies.

“Bye.” Alex tells him.

“Goodbye.” Henry echoes, hanging up and grabbing his broom once again, going back to sweeping. 

When Alex comes to collect him, he decides to leave his phone in the apartment. It hasn’t slipped his mind that Eric tracks his cellphone, the last thing he wants him to see is the fact that he’s out running all over New York. 

He also grabs a spare wedding invitation, slipping it into his pocket as he walks out to greet Alexander in the hallway.

They're pulling out of the parking lot, when Henry turns to Alex. He’s dressed in a button-down and shorts, the first few buttons of his top undone. He’s also got sunglasses on, perched perfectly on the bridge of his nose. There’s something enthralling about this little get-up; he looks rather smart.

Once he’s able to grasp his thoughts, he speaks up. “Thank you,” He starts, pausing before continuing. “For going through all this trouble just to meet up with me. I know I haven’t been the most compromising.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Alex replies, smiling as he rounds a corner, starting out on the main road. “You’re getting married next month— I know you’re busy.”  
  


“I’m honestly surprised that you’re still willing to make time for me,” He admits. “A lot of people see how busy I am and just sort of, I don’t know, decide I’m not worth their time, I suppose.” He explains.

“You’re definitely worth my time, Hen.” Alex insists, and the use of a nickname makes Henry’s brain so fuzzy. “And anybody who doesn’t think so didn’t deserve you in the first place.”

Henry feels his face flush. “You’re too kind, really.” He tells Alexander. It’s true— he’s honestly a rubbish friend. Always canceling, never rescheduling, dropping quite a few of them at his fiancé’s request; he doesn’t understand how Pez reaches out with a new number, time and time again. He hopes Alex can get out, not wanting him to go through the same thing.

“I’m not kind,” Alex says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m just stating facts.”

Henry doesn’t know what to make of this.

After they grab lunch, Alexander drives around until they find a parking garage, pulling into an empty spot and turning off the car. They sit there, talking for an immeasurable amount of time about a plethora of subjects. Work, family, books and films— practically anything that they were able to think of. He doesn’t think he’s ever had such a powerful connection with another person before. 

The topic of Henry’s wedding does, in fact, come rearing its ugly head. 

“Are you excited?” Alex asks, taking off his sunglasses and setting them in the center console. “You’re gettin’ married next month; how’re you feelin’?”

Henry sighs. “Speaking honestly, I’m not that excited about it,” He admits, fidgeting with his ring out of habit. “I’m just ready for the whole mess to be over.”

Alex hums empathetically in response. “I can’t imagine how nervous you must be.”

“It’s just—“ Henry hesitates. He knows it’s silly, but he’s mortified of word getting back to Eric, of him hearing his innermost thoughts about this whole affair. “I don’t know.”

“Hey,” Alex starts, turning to face Henry, giving him his complete, undivided attention. “You can talk to me, you know.”

“It’s silly,” He replies, denying Alex’s offer to listen as he bitches and moans. 

“I take care of three and four-year olds five days a week. My definition of silly is very niche, H.”

“Do you actually want to know?”

“I do,” Alex assures him, concern and compassion in his eyes. “Go ‘head, start talkin’. You have my attention.”

“I—“ He sighs, letting go of his residual fear. Eric isn’t here. Eric can’t hear him. “My fiancé, he’s— he’s been one of the main contributors to my stress, lately.”

“How come?” Alex asks, and Henry’s immediately struck by his attentiveness, his willingness to actually listen and ask questions. 

“He’s doing a myriad of things, really.” Henry continues, crossing his arms over his torso. “Making changes to our finalized plans, starting the nastiest arguments over the smallest things, constantly hovering over me and being outrageously overprotective. I just don’t know. I’ve definitely been far more stressed than excited.”

Alexander looks taken aback, puzzled expression on his face. “Do you feel comfortable going a bit more into those last two points?” He questions. “If not, that’s fine, of course. I just feel like talking about it could help you feel better.” He assuages.

“Well, as for the arguing, the most recent one was a few weeks ago,” He recalls, still feeling a bit tense. “He was making changes to our plans, like I told you just a few seconds ago. Adding around twenty more people to the guest list, changing the color scheme, silly things like that. So, we were sitting together and chatting about it, and he told me that he wanted to change the venue,” He explains. “We’d already agreed on the Foundry, and he insisted on changing it to a church.”

“Why did he want to change it so soon?” Alex asks, re-situating himself, sitting a little closer to Henry.

“His parents are a wee bit older, traditional Christians,” Henry explains. “Anyhow, he was insisting upon it, saying that his parents would rather stay at home than see him married in a non-religious service. I was quite upset, because in my mind, everything had been set in stone. It was a month and a half before the wedding, and we’d already rented everything out and paid for everything. And there he was, wanting to change it.” Henry chuckles uncomfortably. “And— well— I suppose I’d been a bit rude with him. Had a bit of a sour attitude about it, and that very quickly started an argument. I just let him vent his frustrations with how childish and selfish I was behaving, and I was looking back. I’d started acting dramatic, crying over nothing. We made up, and he’s getting his church wedding, but I’m still rather anxious, honestly.”

Alex is trying, and miserably failing, to hide his aghast facial expression. Henry feels as if he’s said far too much.

“And the overprotectiveness?” He asks, and Henry feels uneasy about it. 

“I don’t know, Alex. I think I’ve said quite enough.” He tries to justify, feeling his anxiety spike. “I wouldn’t want him to know I’ve said any of this.”

“Well, then I’d say it’s a pretty good thing that I don’t know him,” Alex replies. “If you need to keep talking, then I’ll keep listening. I know you’d do the same for me.”

Alex is right, in that aspect. Henry would most certainly listen to his problems and give him advice, if need be. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. Alex is safe. Alex is kind. Alex is here to listen. Alex is here to help. He knows it isn’t true, but that’s what he has to tell himself to keep going.

“I’ve just felt as if he’s been breathing down my neck lately,” He tells Alex. “More so than he usually is.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You have to promise me you won’t jump to conclusions.”

“I promise.” Alexander swears.

“A while ago, he installed a tracking app on my phone,” Henry starts. “At first, he just used it to make sure I got to and from the apartment safely. Now, I feel like he’s constantly checking it. Trying to find any discrepancies in my schedule to bring it up later. Always asking a thousand questions after I come home from an outing. I left my phone at home— we’d agreed that I could go on a walk today, I think he’d get cross with me if he were to figure out where I am.”

Alex nods, motioning for Henry to continue, seeming to collect his thoughts. 

“He also goes through my phone,” Henry tells him. “And I don’t enjoy that, not at all. My messages, my social media— I’m not even allowed a password on my phone. He says I wouldn’t need one if I didn’t have anything to hide, but it’s not about having something to hide, it’s about my privacy,” He rambles, feeling like he’s getting carried away. “He goes as far as to delete contacts from my phone, if they're a person he doesn’t like.” He sighs, rubbing at his temples. “I’m just overwhelmed— I know that it’s only fleeting, but I’m having second thoughts.” He admits sheepishly. “What would you do, if you were in my position?”

“Can I be honest?” Alex replies. “Like, genuinely honest?”

Henry nods. “Of course you can, I’m willing to take anything you have to say into account.” He assures Alex.

“He sounds toxic,” Alex admits. “And if I were you, I would break with him while I have the chance.”

“I can’t do that,” He says, his response being almost immediate.  
  


“Why not?” Alex questions. “I’m not trying to be rude, by the way. I’m just trying to better understand your perspective.”

“I understand,” Henry replies, feeling a bit shaky as he continues talking. “We just got everything paid for. We sent out the invitations. We reserved our time at the church. Our tuxes just got tailored. There’s going to be a ridiculous amount of people there.” He lists, every possible obstacle on the metaphorical path. “It would humiliate both of our families. I just couldn’t.”

Alex is quiet for a moment, processing this information before speaking up. “I’m sorry, Henry. I, uhm, I really can’t imagine how you must feel. Is there any way I can help you through this?” He asks, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly. 

“It’s a bit of a wild suggestion,” Henry replies, sticking his hand into his pocket, fingers curling around the paper invitation. “And you definitely don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

“Try me,” Alex offers, his smile nowhere close to reaching his concerned, soft brown eyes. It makes Henry feel guilty. “I’m down for just about anything.”

He pulls out the invitation, passing it over before taking great interest in the floor of the car. He feels stupid, feels embarrassed to even have brought a spare invite in the first place.

“You—“ Alex pauses, eyes scanning over the square of card stock. “You really want me to come, Henry?”

“Only if you’d be willing to attend,” He replies, looking back up. “I know we’ve only been friends for a short while, but I feel like I’d be more at ease with you there, if that makes sense.”

“And you’re sure you want that?” Alex asks once again, confirming that Henry actually wants him there. He does— he’s snuck one of Pez, and now, one for him. He can’t imagine two better friends in attendance at his wedding.

“I’m absolutely certain.” Henry replies.

“Alright then,” Alex replies, mussing up Henry’s hair with a smile. “You can expect me on your side, then.”

Henry smiles, feeling momentary serenity wash over him. “I’ll be looking for you.”

“I’ll be the one driving the getaway car.” He jokes.

Henry just laughs and shakes his head.

He makes Alex drop him off a block away from the apartment building, just on the off chance that Eric’s come home from work early. His stress ebbs and flows as he makes his way back; he knows that there’s no possible way that Eric could know about his little joyride through the city. It doesn’t stop him from seeing it as a possibility, though.

His breathing is erratic as he makes his way through the lobby, his heart shooting down into the pit of his stomach as rides in the elevator up to the top floor. He’s very suddenly regretting not taking the stairs. Something feels off— something feels horribly, terribly wrong, and he just can’t put his finger on it.

Standing at door, he genuinely wonders whether or not he could drop everything and leave, if need be. He very quickly comes to the conclusion of no. Eric always manages to be six steps ahead of him, in every way, shape, and form. He hasn’t done anything wrong, but he’s petrified. 

With shaking hands, he checks the door. Unlocked. 

Eric is home.

Trembling, he opens the door, and steps inside. 

The first thing he notices is that Eric is sitting in the living room. He never sits in the living room. He’s reading one of Henry’s old, loved-on copies of _Pride and Prejudice_ , lights off with an end table lamp turned on.

Quietly, he steps further in. He thinks that if he can be quiet enough, by some God-given miracle, he’ll be able to make his way to their room without being noticed.

“Do shut the door behind you, Henry.” Eric responds, flipping to the next page. Henry feels his blood run cold.

Holding his breath, he reaches back behind himself, shutting the door with a soft ‘ _click_ ’ sound.

“Come here.” Eric commands, and Henry slowly inches forward into the room, watching as his fiancé sets the book down on the table, rising up and crossing his arms. “Closer.” He orders, and Henry finds himself standing about a foot away.

He’s having a lot of trouble deciphering how Eric is feeling— he always has. He wears a mask so well. Eric could be tired after a long day, or about to fly off the handle, and he wouldn’t be able to tell. As of right now, his face is alarmingly, disturbingly neutral. 

“Who’s Alex?” Eric asks. 

Henry feels his mouth go try, pins and needles on his tongue as the whole of his body goes clammy. “What are you talking about?”

“ _Don’t_ make me repeat myself,” Eric spits, voice filled with vitriol and burning like acid. “You know good and well who I’m talking about.”

His mind is racing, and his legs are weak and wobbly. 

“Are you even going to try to make some pathetic excuse this time?” Eric asks. “Or do you realize just how badly you’ve gone and fucked things up?”

“Alex is the teacher from the preschool I went to visit,” He stammers, aware of how severely his voice is trembling. “I don’t understand—“  
  


“Shut _up.”_ Eric instructs, and the words leave Henry’s mouth. “I don’t know how long you thought you could get away with seeing him behind my back, but you seem to have forgotten that I’m no fool, Henry.”

Oh, dear God.

“I’m not _seeing_ him—“

“I don’t want your _fucking_ excuses,” Eric spits. “You’ve been texting him without consulting me,” He says, grabbing Henry’s phone off the table and waving it in front of him. “Going out with him in public too, according to your messages.”

“I got coffee with him after the book signing, we’re just friends, I promise—“

“ _Stop lying to me!_ ” Eric bellows, throwing the phone across the room as hard as he can. Henry ducks and covers his head on reflex, flinching when he hears the shatter of the impact against the back wall. 

He backs up as Eric closes in on him, his back pressed against the door, Eric’s angry, rage-filled face inches away from his own. He feels suffocated. He can’t breathe. He thinks he’s dying. 

“I don’t want you leaving this apartment without my permission from this day onward,” Eric says, and when Henry tries to crane his neck away from air, Eric grips his chin in his hand, forcing their eye contact. Henry whimpers, gasping and sobbing. “You’re to clean this entire apartment from top to bottom by the time I get home from work tomorrow, and if I find so much as one _speck_ of dust,” He pauses, tilting Henry’s chin back up when he looks down. “Tonight will look like a fucking _dream_. Am I understood?”  
  


Henry nods frantically, hiccuping as tears blind him, gently pushing Eric away, needing to breathe. As soon as Eric lets go, he falls to the floor, coughing and wheezing. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, _he can’t breathe._

Eric scoffs, looking down at Henry with unadulterated disgust. “If you want to be dramatic and throw yourself to the floor, then you can sleep there.” He tells him, and Henry can’t even bring himself to look Eric in the eyes, heart like a steel drum in his chest as he hyperventilates.

Eric turns on his heel and storms off, slamming the door behind himself.

A violent, tortured wail rips its way from Henry’s chest.

He needs help.

He needs to get out.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexa, play I Want to Break Free by Queen

Henry finds that people often underestimate his ability to fly under the radar. They often forget that he works best when nobody is watching. He locks himself in the office for days on end, only leaving to eat and use the restroom. Under pressure, seamless, and silent. That’s how he gets most jobs done.

That’s how he’s approaching getting out. 

It’s honestly very tricky, the juggling of preparing a bag of things, of rummaging through drawers for anything blunt or sharp to use as a makeshift weapon, whilst also going out of his way to please his fiancé at any possible opportunity. The mental gymnastics are absolutely outrageous. Everyday, when Eric isn’t home, he adds little, subtle things to a duffle bag in the back of their closet: fresh clothes, basic sanitary items, and his journals— he’s not leaving his work here. He sleeps with a letter opener under his pillow; that’s what he’s picked as his makeshift weapon. When he forgets to grab it before leaving their room, he always makes sure he has his keys on his person. The last thing he needs is Eric finding his bag when he’s asleep or has his guard down. He doesn’t even want to imagine what would happen.  
  


Eric’s been abnormally warm towards him lately. Being overly-touchy, trying to strike up conversation at any opportunity, displaying more affection. Henry freezes him out, not having any of it. After that stunt he pulled, he’s lucky that Henry’s still willing to be in the same room as him. He wonders if Eric even notices the way that he flinches when he touches him, when he walks into a room. If he does, he wonders if he cares. Somewhere, deep in his soul, he knows that he doesn’t.

He still has no outside means of communication. Eric seems to have an inkling of what’s running through Henry’s mind, says he’ll get his phone repaired after the wedding. If that’s how he wants to play that game, then fine. Henry has no qualms about embarrassing him, anymore. If that’s what he has to do for the sake of survival, then he doesn’t care about being branded as a runaway groom. 

The weeks come and go, and Henry continues to advance his plan, in case Eric suddenly bursts into a bout of rage. He knows that Shaan and Zahra will let him in if he runs across the hall. He knows how long it takes him to get to the front door from every possible location in the apartment. He knows that the safest place to be is their bedroom, if a fight happens to break out. He has a list of people he can call memorized— his dad, Bea, Pez, and Alex— all in no particular order. He knows he can stay with all of them. He also knows that his parents still have his trust fund set up, despite him being finished with college. He knows there’s quite a bit in that account as well. Enough to pay for an apartment when he overstays his welcome with whoever he ends up staying with. He can only hope that he’s correctly remembered the PIN number.

In the days before the wedding, his anxiety is the quite possibly the worst it has ever been in his entire life. It comes in the forms of migraines and insomnia and many, many tears. Eric learned rather quickly that attempts at comfort will only result in being screamed at and being pushed away. He opts to leave Henry alone, and Henry is more than grateful.

“You _will_ be having a psychiatric evaluation after the wedding,” Eric tells him when they’re sitting in the living room together, only three days before said civil union. “You are completely mentally unstable— I’m no longer allowing you to make that choice. You’re falling apart, and you refuse to get yourself help. 

“Whatever you say, Eric.” Henry replies. If anyone needs to be medicated, it’s his fiancé. He doesn’t think he’s ever met someone so dangerous, so vile, so viscerally horrifying; he can’t believe he was drowning in the illusion of love for so long. “You’re in charge here,” He hisses through his teeth. “Whatever you say.”

“What’s happened to you?” Eric has the absolute audacity to ask, muting the television. “What’s made you decide to act this way, to go off the bloody deep end like this, right before our wedding?”

Henry refuses to process this blatant display of gaslighting. He’s not fucked in the head, he’s been abused, for several years. The words roll right off his back; he refuses to internalize them. “I’m not sure, darling,” He replies, his use of a pet name for Eric absolutely nauseating him. “I know you’ll figure it out eventually, though. You’re smart like that.” 

“Don’t _patronize_ me, you psychopath.” Eric spits, and Henry has to hold back a laugh.

“I’m sorry,” He apologizes, pursing his lips together so he’s unable to smile.

“No,” Eric replies, obviously trying to start something. “You’re not.”

Once again, Henry refuses to entertain it. “Whatever you say.” He says, echoing his statement from earlier.

Seventy-two hours.

He can get through this. 

“Henry, son, I’d like to have a chat with you.” Arthur tells Henry as they touch up in a separate part of the church. Henry hasn’t seen his father in person in almost two years; it feels weird to be near him, now. His blonde hair is starting to grey, but surprisingly, it isn’t thinning. The only wrinkles on his face are the beginnings of laugh lines, and despite Eric picking his suit, Henry has to admit that his father is looking quite debonair.

Christ, he’s missed him _so much._

“What about?” He asks, tightening his tie as he makes his way across the room, standing in front of Arthur. He’s got his bag sitting on a table in the back. He’s just got to figure out what to do with it— who to give it to. 

“I— well,” Arthur starts, taking a deep breath, letting it out in the form of a sigh. Henry already knows what he’s going to say, but they’re already in too deep at this point. He wants to say it to Eric’s face, wants to watch the life leave his eyes when Henry dissolves any hope of them actually getting married. It might be sadistic, but he almost feels as if he’s owed it. “I don’t know how to go about this without offending you.”

“Well, I’ll try my best to listen and keep a calm temperament.” Henry replies reassuringly. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Dad.”

“I—“ Arthur pauses again, thinking carefully about how he’s going to phrase what he’s about to say. “I don’t think that this marriage is going to be a sound decision for you.”

Henry nods. To his father, it might look as if he’s simply processing this intake of information. If only he knew that he was truly nodding in agreement. “Go on.”

“I mean, for Christ’s sake, you haven’t been to see me and your mum in years, and you haven’t called anyone in the family in months,” Arthur lists, and Henry nods. He knows, and he can’t express how awful he truly feels about it. “Every time I see you, I wonder where my son’s gone. You look more sick every time I see you, Hazza.”

Henry sighs, shutting his eyes, placing his hands on his father's shoulders. He can’t cry— not now. Not when he’s so close to being free. “I know it looks really bad, but I promise everything will be—“

“Henry, son, I am _begging_ you,” Arthur says, and the tears in his father’s voice shatters his heart. “ _Please_ , look at me.”

Henry pries his eyes open, and he can see the blatant fear and distress written on his father’s face. 

“Please, _don’t_ do this,” Arthur tells him. “Come home with me and Mum. We’re worried for you.”

“Dad, you’ve got to listen to me when I tell you that everything’s going to be alright,” Henry tells him, immediately regretting it when he watches as Arthur’s eyes water and promptly shut. “Don’t cry,” He tells him, comforting his father in a strong, tight hug. “Please, don’t cry.”

There’s no telling how long they stand there— minutes, hours— Henry isn’t keeping track. He feels so remarkably guilty, for putting everybody in his family through so much pain, because he was too blind to see what he was being put through. God, if he could find a way to turn back time, to speak to himself when he was eighteen, he would tell himself to get the hell out of there, as fast as he can. He can’t believe it ever got this bad without him noticing. 

There’s a quick knock at the door, and Bea comes barreling in. She's dressed in something she would typically wear: casual denim jumpsuit, vegan leather jacket, and combat boots. Her hair’s tied up into a pristine knot on the top of her head. 

“Where’s your dress?” Henry asks. He’s aware that it doesn’t really matter, but had he actually been getting married to Eric— if the two of them were getting married for love— would she still show up dressed like this? He likes to think that she wouldn’t, but he’s truly uncertain.

“Wasn’t aware that I had to adhere to a dress code.” She replies, tone filled with ever-pleasant snark.

“There typically is— hence the dress,” Henry replies. “Though I am glad that you decided not to wear it.” He admits. “The dresses Eric picked out are absolutely hideous.”

“I’ll say,” Arthur pipes in, clearing his throat, finally grasping hold of his emotions. “Did you see that frock he stuck his sister in?”

“It was tragic,” Bea snorts.

“I feel bad for Octavia, honestly,” Henry admits— he feels bad for anyone related to Eric. “Where’s Mum?”

“Off with Martha charting to Eric’s mother.”

“And Philip?”  
  


“Off helping Eric get ready,” She confirms.

Of course _Philip_ would be helping _Eric_. Ignorant and oblivious, until the very end.

“I know I’m in no place to ask for favors,” Henry starts, the gears turning in his head. “But could one of you two do something for me?”

_“Five minutes!”_ Martha calls from the hallway.

“What is it?” Bea asks. Arthur is giving him a confused look.

“I don’t exactly have the time to explain it,” Henry tells her, tone apologetic. “But I need you to take this,” He says, walking across the room and grabbing the duffel bag, handing it to her. “And put it in your car, and take it back to Flushing after the wedding.”

“What have you got going on?” Arthur asks him, and Henry shakes his head. “Knowing you, it ought to be something surprising.”

“I’ve got a plan, just— can you do that for me, Bea?”

She nods. “I don’t know what the hell you’re on about, but yeah,” She replies. “Mum and Dad’s house, or mine?”

“Mum and Dad’s.” He replies.

“Henry—“ Arthur starts, and Henry cuts him off. 

“Dad,” Henry tells him, squeezing his shoulder. “I have a plan. _Trust_ me.”

“ _Two minutes!_ ” Martha calls out, and Henry feels his hair stand on end.

“Alright, Bea. Go put it out in your car, and then hurry back in,” Henry instructs, linking arms with his father. “Let’s go queue up, shall we?” He asks Arthur as his sister dashes out of the church.

Arthur sighs. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

They stand in the doorway, and Henry feels ill as the processional music begins to play. He gives his father a quick squeeze, and it’s reciprocated, and then they're off.

He scans the pews for familiar faces. He sees Pez immediately, who’s deliberately disobeying the dress code of silver and gold— a shocking teal suit embroidered with coral-colored flowers, paired with a plunging black tank top. His wink is all sharp eyeliner and mink lashes; Henry has to use all of his willpower to suppress his giggle.

They reach the altar, and Henry gives his father a final, reassuring squeeze before he’s symbolically given away. It must seem damning and final for Arthur. Henry knows it’s anything but.

Eric smiles, taking Henry’s hands in his own. Henry resists the urge to pull away, letting his hands hang limp and heavy. 

“Hello, lovely.” His fiancé greets in a whisper.

“Eric.” Henry responds, surveying the crowd as the priest begins to speak. This room is filled with people that he doesn’t know, people who don’t care about him in the slightest. Completely and utterly disingenuous.

His eyes eventually land on Alexander, who’s standing in the back by the windows. Alex smiles, giving him a polite nod. Henry can’t help the way he grins back, reassuring, only for him. It feels so good to have him here, on such a long, stress-inducing day. He looks nice, black suit and gold tie. He can only hope that Alex won’t be too shocked with what’s soon to come.

The moment comes all too suddenly.

“Do you, Eric Michael Andrew Collins, take Henry James Fox to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?” The priest questions.

“I do,” Eric replies, and the happiness in his voice sounds authentic. Henry almost feels bad for what he’s about to do.

Almost.

“And do you, Henry James Fox, take Eric Michael Andrew Collins to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I—“ Henry starts, feeling as if the wind’s been knocked clean out of him. He looks around the room. 

His father, looking resigned, his eyes watering.

His mother, looking dreadfully upset and terribly tired.

Pez, sneaking a flask out of one of his jacket pockets, knocking his head back as he chugs. 

Bea, standing by the door, arms crossed and brows furrowed.

The rest of the room, hanging on his words.

Alex, standing in the back of the room, realizing what he’s about to do, soft brown eyes going big and wide. 

“No,” He whispers.

“What was that, lovely?” Eric asks, clearly not having heard him.

“No,” Henry says, louder, and the room is so quiet that one could hear a pin— or rather Pez’s flask, fall to the floor. He rips his hands away. “I’m sorry, I just— _no_. Not a chance in hell.”  
  


Bea bursts into a fit of laughter, and he runs out the church doors, like his life depends on it. He runs out of the church parking lot, and down the street, and just keeps sprinting. His lungs and chest ache with every intake of warm air, and he feels as if he might faint, but he doesn’t care. He needs to put as much space between him and that church as possible.

He hears a car coming after him, and he picks up pace, running so quickly that he trips over a crack in the pavement and falls a little too quickly for him to put his arms out, scraping his face on the sidewalk. He groans, pushing himself up off the ground. With shaky hands, and equally shaky breathing, he pulls the engagement ring off his finger, and throws it as far and as hard as he’s capable. He hopes someone runs it over, hopes someone crushes it. Honestly, he hopes someone will find and pawn it. It’ll get them a pretty penny or two.

The panic and fear seeps in just as the vehicle pulls up beside him. _Dear God, what he just do?_ Eric’s going to find him, going to track him down and—

The sound of the window being rolled down makes him flinch on reflex.

“Need a ride?” Alex questions, and Henry immediately whips his head around to look at him. His sleeves are rolled up, his tie is loosened, and he’s got his sunglasses on. He’s got the most tender, concerned expression on his face. It makes Henry want to start bawling.

“Yes, please.” He says immediately, making his way over to the passenger-side door on wobbly legs that threaten to give out with every single step. He pulls the door shut behind himself, and buckles in, flopping back against the seat and letting out a dry sob.

“I'm gonna find a place to park, and then we’re gonna patch that up, alright?”

“Okay,” Henry wheezes, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He still can’t believe he did that; he can definitely feel a migraine coming on strong.

Alex finds the closest parking garage, and takes the first vacant spot he stumbles upon. “You need to call someone in your immediate family and let them know where you are.”

“I don’t have a phone anymore,” Henry explains, still breathless.

“What do you mean?” Alex asks, sounding puzzled.

“Eric broke it a few weeks ago when he got mad at me,” He continues. “I don’t have a phone.”

“Jesus,” Alex breathes. “Can you give me one of their numbers, please? Wanna let them know that you’re safe.”

Henry gives Alex Bea’s cellphone number. He knows that out of everyone in the family, she's the least likely to let it get back to Eric.   
  


“She sent back an address in Flushing.” Alex notifies him.

“That’s my parents’ house,” Henry replies.

“We’ll get going there in a little bit,” Alex soothes. “Wanna get you patched up first. Fed and hydrated, too.”

“I don’t—“ Henry starts, cutting himself off. This is usually when Eric would interfere, when he would interrupt and take charge. He’s genuinely shocked that Alex hasn’t tried to do the same.

“Talk to me, Hen.” Alex encourages. “I’m listening.”

“I don’t need any help,” He tells Alex, keeping his tone as calm and as even as possible. “I— I think I’m okay.”

“Henry, sweetheart, can you look at me?” Alex asks, and Henry’s eyes shoot open at the genuine concern. Alex’s face is schooled, albeit not well. The empathy and solicitude apparent on his face. “I know you feel like you don’t need help right now— and I want to respect that— but your face is bleeding. You’re pale, and you’re shaking. I think you’re still riding off the adrenaline of everything that just happened. That you’re in shock. Can I at least clean the scrape on your face, please?” He asks.

“I—“ Henry is so unbelievably thrown by his kindness, by his calmness, by the way he waits for him to say his piece instead of doing whatever he pleases. Alex is so completely, unbelievably kind. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” Alex replies, pulling out a first aid kit. Digging around, he pulls out a tube of Neosporin, an alcohol swab, and a large bandage. 

Henry hisses when the alcohol comes in contact with his freshly-scraped skin, and Alex shushes him gently, continuing to wipe down the wound, disposing of the used swab in an old, empty grocery bag. Next, he spreads some Neosporin onto his finger, touching it to Henry’s cheek. 

“You took quite the fall,” Alex tells him. “I watched you trip— you practically ate the concrete.” He points out.

“I thought you were Eric,” Henry admits. “Coming to fetch me, marry me, and do something terrible to me.” He admits, and he can hear the sudden intake of breath that gets trapped in Alex’s throat.

“Nope,” Alex replies, sounding tense. “Not even close.”

“I’m glad,” Henry tells him.

“So am I,” Alex says back.

They're silent as Alex sticks on the bandage, smoothing it down against the skin of his cheek. His hands are warm, scratchy and calloused. It’s pleasant. 

“Do you feel comfortable talking about what happened back there?” Alex asks him.

“I don’t know.” He admits, and Alex gives him a polite smile. 

“That’s okay— let's get you a drink and some food.”

Henry nods, and Alex pulls out of the parking garage, driving until they happen upon the first food place. Alex gets him some water and a sandwich. He gets himself a drink and a side of fries. They eat as Alex starts the drive to Flushing, and Henry starts to come down from his anxiety-induced high, going from a jittery mess to a heap of dead weight within ten minutes.

He finds himself looking at Alex and looking away several times over. He wonders if the offer from before still stands; it had nothing to do with his trust in Alex, and everything to do with the fact that his mind was loud and fuzzy all at once, very similar to television static. He looks up at him again, and finds that Alexander was already looking at him.

“Is something wrong?” Alex asks, putting a gentle, heavy hand on his shoulder. “You seem like you have something to say.”

“I think,” Henry pauses, trying to push down his fear. He knows that Eric is nowhere near him, but he can’t shake that lingering terror. “I think I want to talk about why I chose to do that.”

“Of course, whenever you’re ready,” Alex replies, turning back to the road.

“I uhm, I don’t really know where to start.” He admits.

“Wherever you’re comfortable is fine with me.” Alex assures him.

“Well, I took what you said into account— about Eric being toxic.” He starts, shifting around in his seat. “I started taking note of little things; I would do all the cleaning, he would get upset with me when I tried to get work done, constantly tried to get ahold of me if we were in the same space— I never noticed that I wasn’t allowed to pick my own clothes before.” He continues. 

“You weren’t allowed to pick your own clothes?” Alex asks, tone filled with disbelief.

“It was one of the things I’d ‘agreed’ to give him control over in the relationship,” He explains, rolling his eyes. “I was so desperate to please him, to make him happy. He could have done just about anything, and I would have let him,” He continues. “Anyways, when I got home from our little drive that day, I just felt like something really bad was going to happen.” He tells him, voice shaking.

“Like what?” Alex prompts.

“I’m not sure; it was an all-consuming, completely overwhelming feeling of dread,” He tells him. “I walked in the door, and he’d gone through my phone— I hadn’t deleted any of our messages, and I hadn’t had a chance to tell him about you, yet.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t blow over too well?”

“He thought I was cheating on him with you,” Henry tells him, watching as Alex tense up completely. “He threw my phone across the room at me, and it broke. He had me pinned against the wall, started threatening me. I— I knew he was going to start getting physical with me if I didn’t get out. I only had two weeks before today, so I tried to do everything I could to prepare for running off.”

“God, Hen. I can’t imagine how horrifying that must’ve been for you.” Alex sighs, and Henry feels tears stinging his eyes.

“I just packed some clothes and some hygiene products and some stuff I was working on,” He explains. “Kept it in the back of my closet. Slept with a letter opener under my pillow in case he found it. I was bloody terrified,” He admits. “I gave the bag to Bea— that’s my sister you’ve been texting— and she's taking it with her to Flushing.”

It’s silent for many moments. Henry finally looks up from his lap, and the look on Alex’s face makes him burst into tears without a second thought. His tears come big and quick, burning his face, making him gasp and whimper in mental anguish. God, Eric could have killed him, had he felt particularly inspired to on any given occasion. Could’ve shoved Henry over and stabbed him with his own letter opener. Could have broken his heart beyond all repair. Could have left his mind in ruins. Eric could have ended him.

“Shh, Henry.” Alex coos, guiding Henry’s face down into the crook of his shoulder, twisting his fingers around strands of blond hair. “It’s okay, you’re safe now, you’re finally out.”

Henry lets out an anguished shriek. Words cannot express the pain coursing through every last inch of him. He knows that he’s safe, but he doesn’t think he’s felt more afraid now than he has in his entire life— he is alone, he is vulnerable, and there’s nothing stopping Eric from finding him.

“Let it out, Henry.” Alex encourages. “Let it all out, sweetheart, it’s alright.”

Henry cries until he’s been bled dry, unable to do anything but shake and hiccup and let out dry sobs.

“I’m so proud of you for getting out, Henry.” Alex praises, although his voice is strained. “So, so proud.”

Henry inhales deeply, holding his breath before letting it out. Alex’s hand slips down to rub his back. He wants to scold him for driving while in such a reckless position, but he thinks he’ll lose it if Alexander stops comforting him right now.

They pull into the driveway of Henry’s parents’ house, and Henry has absolutely no plans to move. 

“Will you come and see me?” He asks Alex, who hums, combing through Henry’s hair, fixing it for him. “While I’m staying here?”

“So long as you want me to, I will,” Alex replies, patting his shoulder. “They're all waiting for you in there. Ready to take care of you. Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not—“ Henry goes to say, quickly realizing that he is, in fact, afraid. “I’m just overwhelmed, I think.”

“Try to take it five seconds at a time,” Alex soothes. “If something’s hard, just keep counting to five. If you can get through one five second period, then you can get through another.”

Henry nods. “Okay,” He says, reassuring himself more than Alex. “Alright, I can do that.”

Alex grins at him, and Henry can feel the pride there. “I know you can,” He says. “Ready to go get ‘em?”  
  


Henry nods again. “I think so.”

“I’ll stay here until you go in,” Alex offers.

“Okay,” Henry breathes once more. “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me lately.”

“Of course. Call me if you need me.”

“I will.”

Hesitantly, Henry makes his way out of the car. He walks up the driveway and steps, then turns back.

Alex smiles and gives him a wave. He waves back.

Turning back, he faces the front door.

He shuts his eyes, counts to five, then walks in.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly filler to push the story along but there’s a tender moment at the end 🥺

An incandescently miserable month goes by in a thick haze of tears and chest pains. At the same time that Henry feels numb, even the slightest thoughts bring him unbearable pain. He’s cried a lot— so much so that he’s received swollen faces and bloody noses several times over. It’s been a mess; he’s been using Kelly Clarkson and Bake-Off to get through it all. 

Everyone in his family has tried something different in terms of helping him cope. Arthur brings him snacks and makes him eat, tells him jokes that are so ridiculously bad that just about anyone would laugh. His mother is always the first one to come to his room every night when he wakes up shrieking in terror, shushing him and stroking his face and drying his eyes. Bea comes into his room with her ukulele and her wrinkled sheet music, sit at the foot of the bed, and sing him songs. Philip— he apologizes. A lot. For everything; not supporting him when he came out, ignoring blatant warning signs with Eric—pretty much everything that comes to mind. Sometimes while crying, sometimes whilst barely holding his tears back. Henry tells him it’s okay, and screams into his pillows every time he leaves.  


As soon as Arthur had approached him about therapy, he’d immediately agreed on going. It seemed wildly inappropriate of him to not go at this point, especially with his dad making the request for him to do so. He’s since upgraded from a letter opener to a box-cutter stuffed beneath his pillow; he sleeps with it in his clutch, if he’s especially anxious for some reason. There’s no avoiding it: he needs help.

His first session with Cash, his compassionate and hulking therapist, was a family session. It had started out strong— everyone was taking turns and listening, and Henry was genuinely surprised to see the whole family cooperating and getting along. However, it very quickly devolved into a heap of emotions; Catherine was crying and blaming herself for everything, and Bea and Philip were screaming at each other, blaming one another for not seeing enough warning signs. Cash told them all, very politely, to leave, and told Henry that they would only be doing one-on-one sessions from this day onward. This particular decision brought him immense satisfaction. 

He’s received two diagnoses— depression and PTSD. Cash has also put him on Zoloft. It gives him hand tremors, and has completely messed up his sleep schedule, but to him, it’s better than sobbing all the time, and having a panic attack when someone so much as sets the grocery bags down a bit too hard. Therapy and medication are one-hundred percent worth all of the minor side effects.

Alex is usually the one that picks him up from therapy; Henry’s family pries just a little too much for his liking. He knows they all mean well, he really does, but there are just certain things that he just doesn’t want them to know. Oftentimes, they don’t talk about his sessions with Cash. Alex brings him food and tea from the café— sometimes he brings him odd, endearing little trinkets. He distinctly remembers being gifted a turtle keychain to put on his lanyard a week and a half ago. 

There are times, though, where he does divulge little pieces of information. This often happens when he’s trying to process some troubling thought or memory, and needs to verbalize it in order to get it the hell out of his head. He tells Alex about his painful, twisted, wicked dreams. And he listens. Alex listens to every last word. 

“I dunno,” Henry had sighed five days ago, sitting in Alex’s car, poking at ice in a plastic cup of water with his straw. “He just— he’s there. Everywhere I go. Behind my eyelids when I sleep. I think I’ve gone fucking mad.” He’d set his cup in the holder, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You’re not,” Alex had replied, rubbing at the nape of Henry’s neck with a friendly sort of affection. “You’re just hurting right now. You’re not crazy, I promise.”  
  


“I sure do feel like it, though.” He’d told him, laying his head on Alex’s shoulder. He’d shut his eyes, then. Eric is there, vengeful, screaming, and angry. He’d clenched his eyes shut tighter, willing the scenario out of his mind.

“I know,” Alex had crooned, fingers threading through his hair. “But I know for a fact that you’re not.”

That had brought him momentary peace.

Today, it’s a completely different story. He’s been floating in and out of sleep all day; he might have gotten out of bed once or twice to use the restroom. He’s just so, so tired, and he doesn’t know why. He vaguely remembers people floating in and out of his bedroom; his mum, to press a kiss to his cheek, Bea, to see if he was awake to eat, and his dad, just to make sure he’s alright. Most would see it as a day wasted, but he doesn’t think he’s slept this well since he was eighteen.

It’s then that Alex opens the door to his bedroom, shutting the door softly behind himself as he walks inside. He’s just gotten off from his summer job— teaching at a daycare in SoHo— as can be seen by the washable marker staining his fingers and the polo-chinos combination. Henry’s shocked that he isn’t absolutely exhausted; the thought of writing right now makes him want to curl further into himself and sleep for the rest of time. 

“Henry?” He asks, warm and sweet. “Are you awake?”

“ _Barely,_ ” Henry yawns in response.

Alex stops in front of Henry, giving his face a soft pat. “It’s three-thirty in the afternoon. You need to get up, now.”

“Why?” Henry groans, burying his face in his pillow.

“Because I would love to talk to you, and spend time with you.” He tells him. “Can’t do that if you’re sleeping, bud.”  
  


Henry groans once again when Alex sits him up. 

“I’m gonna run you a bath, sleepin’ beauty,” He says, and Henry snorts, shaking his head. He knows that he’s far from what anyone with semi-decent vision would consider ‘ _beautiful_ ’ today.

After a few minutes, Alex shoves and shuffles him into the bathroom so that he can shower properly. The warm water does an excellent job of waking him up, of loosening up all of his sore, tense muscles. When he steps out, he’s clean and coherent. There are clothes laid out for him on the sink’s counter— a grey button-down and a pair of slim-fit navy trousers. He’s worn this outfit so many times that he’s stopped keeping track. He really should have put more clothes in his runaway bag. He brushes his hair, and his teeth, then emerges. Alex looks pleased with his freshened-up appearance.   
  


“There we go,” Alex praises, smiling. “Feeling a little bit better?”

“Yes, actually,” Henry admits, running a hand down his face. Now that he’s not wallowing in his sheets and basking in the warmth of well-worn pajamas, he feels like he’ll be able to take on the world in small doses.

“I find that it’s oftentimes the little things that help me feel better the fastest,” Alex replies, tossing a pair of shoes and some socks onto the bed.

“Are we going someplace?” He asks, sitting down and pulling on his socks and sneakers, one foot at a time.

“Just on a walk around the neighborhood, then back up here,” Alex tells him. “I know today hasn’t been the best for you, so I figured you’d want to take it easy for the rest of the day.”

Henry sighs, chuckling as he rises up. “You would be correct in that assumption.”

They’ve gone around the block a few times when Alex finally speaks up. 

“So,” He starts, clearing his throat. “How have you been adjusting to living back at home?”

Henry hums, kicking at pebbles scattered across the concrete sidewalk. “Can I be completely honest with you?”

“Of course.” Alex replies, soft and amiable, approachable. 

“I _despise_ it,” He admits, shaking his head as his shoulders tremble with laughter. “Christ, I love them all to pieces, but it feels like I’m some sort of endangered creature, being shifted from one enclosure to the next.”

“So you’re a big cat, and you just went from Joe Exotic to, what, Doc Antle?”

Henry chuckles then, nodding. “Something like that, yes. I just— I’m being controlled in both scenarios, if that makes sense. They let me sleep all day and comfort me when I cry, but the second someone outside of the immediate family comes over— like my grandmother, who came all the way from Toulouse to visit about three weeks ago— I’m expected to act as if I’ve made a full recovery. They feel guilty about it, and I know they do, but I just— I don’t know.”  
  


“You need time to heal on your own terms,” Alex says, nodding earnestly with every word. “I completely understand that. I know I couldn’t stay with my family if that were the case. They’d be actin’ the same, maybe worse. Divorced lawyers tend to be tough lovers.” He huffs, laughing.  
  


“I’m thinking about moving out, honestly,” Henry tells him. “I don’t know where yet, but I’ve been looking around. Might used the trust fund money to pay for a smaller place. I just need more privacy than what I’m getting.”

“Have you asked Pez about staying with him?” Alex asks. “I’m sure he’d love to have more time with you, to catch up on lost time.”

“We talked on the phone last night, and I’d considered it, but then I remembered that he lives back in Carnegie Hill. Just down the street from Eric. I can’t risk living so close to him. I think he’d harass me until I came back, to be realistic about it.”

“And that is so incredibly valid of you. If I were you, I wouldn’t even want to live in the same state as that piece of shit.”

“Believe me,” He sighs. “I really do at times. But this is my life, the life that I’ve established for myself. I’ve lived in New York for years, and I refuse to let him ruin it for me.”

Alex smiles.  
  


“What?” Henry asks, one brow raised in quizzical confusion. 

“Your tenacity _astounds_ me,” Alex says simply, as if it’s an obvious-yet-unspoken truth. “Your strength is amazing, sure, but your tenacity is somethin’ else.”  
  


Henry’s attention immediately turns to the sidewalk. Compliments are tricky things, no matter how small. “Thank you.” He murmurs, face going red as he shoves his hands into his pockets.

The quiet between them isn’t as tense as it used to be with Eric. It’s not thick and suffocating, not potent and deadly. It’s just, well, quiet. There’s no malice behind it, there’s no violent words or empty threats patiently waiting their turn to come forth; everything is smooth and easy. There’s no need to talk incessantly, to ramble, to try and drown it out. They’re simply enjoying one another’s presence in complete silence, and Henry is grateful for the brief respite.

A few laps around the block later, Alex speaks up once more.   
  


“I have an idea about your living arrangement,” He begins, gently bumping Henry in the ribs with his elbow. “And if you don’t like it, that’s completely fine, but it just came to mind, and I figured that you’d like to hear it.”

“Go ahead, then.” Henry replies, lifting his head up to peer over at Alex. The golden glow of summer sun suits him well, brilliant rays of light soaked up by warm brown skin. 

“Well, you _could_ stay with me,” Alex offers, brown loafers scuffing against the ground. “I’ve got a spare room in my apartment, and Washington Heights is pretty far away from Carnegie Hill.” He notes. 

Henry mulls it over. Thirty-eight minutes away from Carnegie Hill. In some situations, nearly an hour from Flushing. He’s still within the state, so commute to the publishing company is definitely doable. In addition to all of those pros, one in particular definitely stands out to him; he will have the privacy he is deserving of while he’s living with Alex. It will only be the two of them. They’ll be able to talk without making each other guilty. He knows Alex will be there for him, and he certainly knows that he would do the same for Alex in a heartbeat.   
  


“Like I said, you don’t have to— if you don’t like the idea, that is.” Alex says, interrupting his thoughts with a sudden, short cough.

“No, no, I love the idea,” Henry explains quickly, not wanting him to get the wrong idea. “I just don’t want you to feel obligated to offer me a room, that’s all.”

“I don’t feel obligated at all,” Alex admits, grinning. “I’m offering you a room at my place because you’re my _friend_ , H. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

“Well in that case, when can I move in?” He asks, and Alex beams at him. 

“As soon as you pack your things.” Alex replies easily.

Henry laughs. “I think you’re forgetting I don’t own many ‘ _things_ ’ at the moment.” He reminds him. 

“Tomorrow, then.” Alex proposes. “That’ll give you enough time to get ready, right?”

“Oh, that’s more than enough time, for sure.”

Alex phone buzzes, and Henry looks down to check it.

“Bea says to start headin’ back to the house,” He reads. “Says dinner should be ready in thirty.”

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Henry asks, rounding the corner with Alex, starting back in the direction of his family home.

“Sure, what’re we having?”

“Probably some casserole Mum found on Facebook.”

Alex cringes, and Henry laughs, soft, but true. 

As it turns out, puff pastry chicken pot pie isn’t as tragic in taste as it is in concept, and in theory. Everyone treated Alex civilly enough, and he was absolutely amazed by the fact that Alex was able to hold conversation with everyone. Music with Bea, books with Mum, stage productions with Dad, hell— even _stocks_ with _Philip_. He was incredibly respectful; he politely turned down a glass of alcohol, and helped Arthur with the washing-up. Catherine had looked wonderfully impressed.

Now, they’ve both snuck back up to Henry’s old bedroom, and they seem to hyper-fixate on their teenage years. Alex was the student body president, prom king, and the valedictorian at his graduation. He seems so nonchalant about it all, immediately wanting to brush it off, wanting to hear about Henry and his accomplishments. Henry didn’t have much to say; his formative years consisted of hiding queer novels he’d bought off Amazon under his bed, piano recitals, volunteering at the women and children’s hospital over weekends and school breaks, and eating with the choir teacher in her room during lunch because he’d been too socially inept to make friends at the time. Alex is riveted, though. Clings to every word like it’s the most amazing thing he’s ever heard. It feels wonderful, to listen and to be listened to. He never realized how truly sublime it was— how he’d been needlessly robbed of so many brilliant conversations by lack of care or interest.

Eventually, as all good things do, their conversation came to an end.   
  


“I should really get going,” Alex says softly, smiling. “I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome, or anything like that.”

“You could never overstay your welcome here, Alex.” Henry mumbles in response, tapping his leg with his socked foot as the last word exits his mouth. “But if you absolutely _must_ , I _suppose_ I shall let you roam free.” He jokes, and Alexander chuckles. 

“ _Why, thank you_ ,” He replies, furthering the banter before breaking character altogether. “There’s actually one thing I want to with you, though,” He admits. “Before I head out for the night.”

“And what’s that, exactly?” Henry finds himself asking, watching with curious eyes as Alex rises up from where they’ve been sitting— well, laying in Henry’s case— on the carpet. He makes his way to Henry’s old homework desk, and finds a random, half-empty journal. He rips a sheet out of it, grabs a pen, and brings it back to Henry.  
  


“I want you to make a list of everything you want to do that Eric never let you,” Alex tells him, and he’s a bit taken aback. “I don’t need the reason why, I just need to know what you want to do.”

Henry raises an eyebrow. “Any particular reason?”

“You’ll see,” Alex replies with a vague wave of the hand. 

“Alrighty, then.” Henry sighs, and he does exactly as he’s told. He writes down everything he’s wanted to do that Eric banned him from doing. Some things date back several years. Others date back three or four months. Nonetheless, he lists every last thing he can think of, then slides the list across to Alex. He feels embarrassed, and for no good reason. Some of these things are so benign, so unbelievably silly, that most would have rebelled. Most would have just done them. He never did, though. Forever toeing the line of otherworldly fear and the need to be loved by someone who never loved him in the first place.

He can see that Alex has gone a bit tense, and it only serves to further his embarrassment. Alexander has this fierce protectiveness about him, and whilst it is always appreciated, he would rather not talk about not being able to pick his own clothes, or have more than one song by the same artist on his playlist, or allowed to go to any LGBTQ+ events, at the risk of cheating— at the risk of finding someone better than Eric. 

When Alexander looks up, his has this look of determination in his eyes that makes something interesting bubble around in Henry’s chest; curiosity. He wants to crawl inside his head and stay a while. He wants to know what on earth’s he’s thinking about at this exact moment. He doesn’t pry, though. It most certainly is not his business. 

“What did you need this list for, again?” He finds himself asking, growing nervous at the idea of unknown possibilities.

“It’s a secret.”

“Alex—“

“— a _good_ secret, don’t panic,” He assuages, mussing Henry’s hair. “I promise, it’s a good secret.” He pulls away, scanning the list as he lets Henry fix his hair. “He didn’t let you play the piano?”

“He did for the first few years of our relationship, but he grew tired of it,” Henry explains. “Called it a useless, childish hobby. I was so desperate to impress him, then. To keep the peace between us. I dropped it the very same second he told me to.”

Alex folds up the list, tucking it into the pocket of his trousers. “Isn’t there a piano downstairs?” He asks. “In the sitting room?”

_Oh._

“Yes,” Henry says, gears turning in his mind. “But I haven’t played in ages. I just know I’ll sound like absolute rubbish.”

Alex grins. “Well, how would you know if you haven’t already heard it?”

And well, Henry can’t make up an excuse for that.

“Will you play for me?” Alex asks him, and damn, he really knows how to turn up the persuasion and charisma when he needs to. “Pretty please?”

And before he’s able to fully comprehend what he’s doing, he’s sitting at the piano with shaky hands, experimentally plucking at keys, producing sudden, short notes. Alexander is sat beside him on the bench, and gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder. He takes a deep breath, and he launches into _“Your Song”_ by Elton John. 

He’s picked the song for one main reason; Eric fucking _hated_ it. It is his favorite love song, and the person he loved most absolutely loathed it. At one point, he thought it was because Eric had a distaste for Elton John as an artist. Now, Henry knows that it’s because he’s disgusted by the idea of true, pure love. The kind that makes you blindly follow people into wildfires. The kind that Icarus felt when flying up on makeshift wings to finally unite with his dearest Apollo. The kind that he’d felt at eighteen, fresh-faced and naive with blooming youth, for a man five years his senior for a man with dead eyes and a heart of glass.   
  


He feels his anger pour out into every note, screams every word in his head, uses far more force than what is necessary for such a tender, intimate song. God, there’s something about this that makes him feel as if his soul’s being lifted up towards the firmament, that he’s being drowned and shaken and set on fire all at once. 

When he finishes, that’s when he notices that he’s been crying.

He looks around the room. Bea is stifling sobs with tissues, her face anguished and red. Dad has silent tears rolling down his face. Mum’s going between fanning her face and sighing shakily. Philip gets up in a hurry, speeding off into the kitchen and shutting the door behind himself. 

He turns to Alex, then. He’s got wet eyes, but he’s got this raw, radiant smile on his face. He grips Henry’s shoulder a little tighter then, like it’s helping him stay grounded. His bottom lip is wobbling dangerously. 

After nearly seven years, he’s doing things that he sincerely thought he’d never do again in his life.

“That was _beautiful_ , Henry.” Alex whispers to him. “It stole my breath away.”

Henry sniffles, leaning on him. This whole ordeal has taken far more out of him than he had initially realized.

“Thank you,” He responds, tone equally hushed. “That actually means quite a lot to me.”

Now that he’s had his first taste of freedom, he finds himself craving much, _much_ more.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry has Moved In and wow alex does not know how to take care of himself

Henry explains in great detail his plans to move in with Alexander the next day to his parents that night. He’s not sure why, but he has this all-consuming need to justify himself, to keep going until he can’t breathe anymore, to drive his point home as fast and firmly as possible. He just feels that Alex and what he’s providing will be a fresh start for him, somewhere where he can rest his weary wings, where he can properly assess his needs and heal at his own pace, whilst not being completely enabled and allowed to fall apart at the same time.  


“We understand completely, son.” Arthur tells him, and he seems completely alright with this decision. His eyes and smile are soft and warm. This is not what Henry had planned for. 

“Of course, we knew it would only be a matter of who and when after your grand-mère came to visit.” Catherine supplies, and everyone goes tense around the mention of his grandmother. A traditional, conservative French woman with a particular knack for pointing out flaws— it’s hard not to feel tense, thinking about her. He remembers her, how disgustingly smug and pompous she was at the notion of his failed relationship. He remembers Catherine screaming at her, remembers Bea and Arthur asking her to leave whilst Philip took him upstairs and distracted him with some crime documentary about a man from Colorado. It hadn’t stopped him from hearing the fight downstairs though, and he remembers the way he’d ranted and raved to Philip. He’d told him in a fit of passion and pain that it was all his fault, that if he’d never brought him home during his freshman spring break, that if he’d never left the two of them unsupervised, that if he had bothered to bloody look, to fucking listen to the warning signs— then Henry never would have been abused. Philip had apologized, and Henry had banished him, and everyone else, from his room. He locked himself in there for seventy-five hours by himself, complete and utter isolation. No food. Scarcely any restroom breaks. Crying so much he made himself sick. He remembers that the most.

Henry had accounted for many things. Anger, disappointment, misunderstanding— he’d accounted for all of it. He had anticipating them to be more defensive, to get upset by his suggestion of moving out so soon. By moving in with another man with supposedly good intentions. What he hadn’t accounted for, however, was the unwavering, undying support from his parents. He had not thought far enough ahead to anticipate that. 

“So, you two aren’t mad?” He asks, just to confirm that this isn’t an issue between anyone that will cause problems later. His mother tends to bottle things up until the last possible, to make her opinion known when it’s already too late. She's always the wild card, in any given situation.

“Not for me,” Arthur replies, turning to Catherine. “What about you, Katie?”  
  


“Not at all,” She says, smiling. “Alex is good for you, everyone in the house knows that much. Just be sure to drop in every Saturday or so for something to eat.”  
  


He can’t help his smile. “Of course, Mum. I’ll be sure to do that.”

Packing the next day doesn’t consist of much. He washes his four outfits, and places them inside his duffel bag. He’s also sure to put his journals, his box-cutter, and his hygienic products inside. After that, there’s nothing really left to pack. He finds himself wishing more and more that he’d packed more clothes, but he knows that had he done so, Eric would have easily caught on, and he wouldn’t be here, right now, packing his bag his bag once again to move in with a trusted friend. He thinks he did fairly well with what he had to work with. 

Alex comes to pick him up around ten in the morning, giving Henry enough time to eat and get dressed and the like. His bag is placed in the backseat of Alex’s beat up car, and with a hug from both Catherine and Arthur, they’re on the way.   
  


The drive to Washington Heights is mostly silent, aside from some polite small talk. Henry finds himself staring out the window at busy streets and the blue vastness of the sky. It’s no ride through the French countryside, no drive through London, but it’s more than he’s seen in ages. It’s completely unlike the little drives he’d make around the Manhattan borough when running errands, too mentally involved in the task at hand to enjoy his time out of his glass cage. It’s also unlike the drive from the church to Flushing that he’d had a month ago, blinded by his tears and sobbing hysterically. This— this is _different_. It feels like he’s seeing it all for the first time. And in a way, he is.   
  


They park outside the apartment building Alexander lives in. It isn’t the most beautiful thing; the massive thing is characterized by small windows, a clay-colored exterior, and a fire escape. It’s uniquely different from anywhere he’s ever lived before. He finds it far more comforting than the luxury penthouse apartment, or the house three blocks away from Chinatown. There’s a certain authenticity to it, a certain scrappy kindness, that sings out to him about this place.

They head inside, and up to the apartment, which is located on the second of five floors. Henry immediately starts looking around when they step into the living room, feeling the cool whoosh of air wash away the dead heat of the end of a mid-July morning as the door shuts behind them. There doesn’t seem to be a great surplus of room; Alex keeps everything neat and tidy, but the room is still overflowing with everything in it. 

“I’m sorry,” Alex apologizes, sheepish. “I know it’s cramped, and a little bit messy.”

He shakes his head looking over at him with a smile. “I think it’s quite enchanting, actually.”

Alex scoffs, grinning, and diverts his gaze. Henry doesn’t see how he could ever be embarrassed by such a beautiful place. He knows— and used to know— individuals that would scoff at the idea of living here, but it doesn’t feel like one of those glass and marble prisons; this apartment actually feels like a home. 

As it turns out, the rest of the apartment seems to be just as compact. Henry wonders how he even cooks in such a tiny kitchen; there’s no room to fit more than one person in it. When he asks Alex about it, Henry is more than shocked to hear him chuckle.

“I do microwave meals most of the time,” He admits, giggling harder when Henry makes a rather aghast facial expression at him. “ _What?_ There’s no room in here to actually cook, and I’m busy.”  
  


“Do you even know how?” Henry dares to ask, and Alex gasps over-dramatically.  
  


“How _dare_ you bring my _honor_ into question?” He asks in a tone that makes Henry giggle. “I’m a half-Mexican kid from Texas— I know how to cook. I just can’t be bothered to.”

“You better be glad that you have me here, then.” He replies, and Alex raises an eyebrow at him, curious and questioning.

“Do you plan on home-cooking meals for me?” He asks, teasing.

“Well, it’s only the _responsible_ thing to do,” He huffs playfully. “Heaven knows what’s in those damned microwaveable meals. I’ll be keeping you from passing prematurely.”

“I am forever indebted to you,” Alex replies, smart-ass smirk plain on his face. 

Henry then learns that they share a bathroom, quickly depositing of his of all his hygiene products, keeping them tucked out of the way. He knows this will be his permanent residence, but he doesn’t want to take up too much space, doesn’t want to be burdensome, doesn't want Alex to regret taking him on as a roommate. So, he’ll stay quiet, and he’ll mind his things as best as he can.   
  


He has to say, he adores his room. There’s nothing special about it, but he can tell it’s _safe_. Alex has put blinds and blackout curtains on over his windows to keep anyone trying to look inside from seeing anything, and there’s been a deadbolt installed on his door. 

Alexander sits down on the sage duvet covering his bed, and holds out a hand. “Your box-cutter, if you would be so kind.”

“Why?” Henry asks, confused.

Alex opens the drawer to his bedside table, pulling out a sleek, compact, black taser. “Just wanna switch it out with something better,” He tells him. “It’s old— from when I bussed tables in college— but it still works.”

“I—“ Henry replies, shocked, floundering for something to say. 

“I know what you’re thinking, and I’m doing it for a very logical reason,” Alex explains to him. “I know you’re anxious about the incredibly slim possibility of _you-know-who_ coming here and finding you, and as we’ve already established, you sleep with a box-cutter under your pillow at night. My main concern is that, well, a box-cutter is a literal knife, and you probably shouldn’t sleep with one underneath your pillow.” He continues, and Henry’s never noticed how often Alex speaks with his hands, making motions and waving them about. “Another concern is that, if he actually finds us, which he _won’t_ , but just in case, it would take so much longer to get the blade out than it would to just press a button and stun him,” He rambles, over-justifying himself. “I’m making this suggestion purely for your physical and mental well-being.”

“I—“ Henry stammers, completely blown away. “I see. I hadn’t even considered that, if I’m honest.” 

He sets his bag down on the bed, rummaging through it before he finds the ugly orange thing, holding it out to Alex, who tucks it into his trouser pocket after shoving the taser beneath Henry’s pillows. 

Alex stands up then, grunting as he stretches. “I guess I’ll leave you be for a while. Let you unpack, have a little bit of privacy.” He tells him.

“Right,” Henry replies, giving him a polite smile. “See you later.”

“Want the door shut?” Alex asks.

“Yes, please.”

“Alrighty,” Alex says, stepping out. “It feels good, you know. Having you here.”

Henry’s brain short-circuits for a moment. He can’t recall anyone ever saying that about him before. “It feels good to be here.” He settles on.

Alex smiles, shutting the door behind himself.

Henry rises up, and makes his way over to his drawers. First, he puts away his four shirts. Then, his four pairs of trousers. After that, he shuts the drawers altogether. He plugs in his newly-bought phone, and sits down on the bed again.

This is _his_ space. 

It may be small and barren, but he knows that it will start feeling more like his room overtime. 

He insists on making dinner that night. After raiding Alexander’s cupboards and pantry, he has determined that this was a massive error on his part. 

“Good _God_ , where's all your food?” He asks, searching around for anything digestible that he can get his hands on.

“I get paid in two days— we’re bare bones right now.”

“I mean, _I_ could pay for groceries.” He offers.

“Henry, I am perfectly capable of buying our groceries; that won’t be necessary.” Alex replies from the living room, gentle and even-toned.

“I’ll start making grocery lists, then.” He replies, only finding the most obscure ingredients. “And we’ll start meal-planning. We won’t run out of food that way.”

“How does that even _work?_ ” Alex asks. “I didn’t major in functioning as a proper adult.”  
  


“We cook all the stuff we can at the beginning of the week, store it in containers, then microwave and eat it throughout the week.”

“That’s brilliant.” Alex muses.

Henry chuckles. “It really is. Tell me, how come you have red wine vinegar and basil leaves, but not any _lettuce?_ ”

“I ran out.” Alex admits, sounding a bit embarrassed. 

“Thought so,” He replies amiably, looking at his shitshow of ingredients. Red onion, red wine vinegar, salt and pepper, heirloom tomatoes, yellow peaches, olive oil, and basil leaves. He’ll cook the Italian sausages he found in the freezer on the side. “Get ready for the strangest meal you’ll ever have to digest in your time with me.”

“That doesn’t reassure me of your cooking abilities,” Alex chortles.  
  


“Well, you’ve left me _nothing_ to work with!” He exclaims, his own laughter starting as Alex’s gets louder. 

Fifteen minutes later, they’re sitting together on the couch, eating their strange salads while watching some odd animated film that Henry can’t remember the name or plot of. 

“This is actually pretty good,” Alex mumbles, shoveling more food into his mouth.

Henry hums. “I tried my hardest with what we had,” He teases.

Alex rolls his eyes, no meaning behind it. “How resourceful of you. A real hunter-gatherer.”  
  


“You know, I’m surprised you’ve made it this far.” He jokes, and Alex fails miserably to hide his laughter.

“So am I, at times.”

That night, as he lay in bed, curtains drawn and door dead-bolted, his hand curled around the taser as he fades in and out of sleep, potent zips of anxiety jolting through his system. He doesn’t feel safe here yet— the environment is far too unfamiliar to establish any feelings of safety, or actual comfort. It feels just the same as it has before, transferred from one shiny cage to the next, and so on and so forth. As he falls asleep for the final time that night, he can’t help but think that whilst this one is the smallest, he feels the least suffocated here.

The next day, Henry doesn’t feel so well. He’s tired. He’s irritable. He misses his parents. As foolish and dangerous as it is to think this way, he misses Eric. Not the Eric he left, though. The Eric he met for the billionth time on Montauk Beach. The young, fit man with a sharp face and toned stomach. Funny. Mature. Magnetic. Electric. That was _his_ Eric. That was Philip’s best mate. That was the bright, intelligent young man that his father was terrified of him running off with. He remembers their first kiss that night, down at the beach whilst everyone else was in the nearby house. He’d been sitting out there on a towel, in a jumper and jeans with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, holding a flashlight above a journal as he wrote and drew in it. Eric had come out and offered him a drink. Wanting to impress this older man suddenly giving him attention, he’d taken it. 

Then another.

Then another.

Then another, and so on and so forth.

If he could go back in time, he would have told himself at eighteen to stay inside that night, and to lock the door to his room. To sleep with his car keys or his pens clenched in his fist. To be as weary of the stranger that’s snuck into their family as he was at thirteen, when Philip brought the bastard home for spring break. 

He would tell himself to run first, and fight as an absolute last resort.

He would tell himself to never, _ever_ , trust Eric Michael Andrew Collins.

After sobbing for ages, writing out what he feels, and taking his medication, he decides that it would be in his best interest to have a shower. The water is so hot that it scalds his skin, but he couldn’t care less; he can feel the agonizing tension seeping through his brittle bones and paper-thin skin, washing out of his body and down the drain. He steps out, dries, dresses, and makes himself look presentable. His eyes are still puffy from crying— he can only hope Alex won’t notice.

Alexander, speak of the devil, is in the living room when he makes his way out. He’s in some sort of spin-off of a previously worn outfit. A hoodie and joggers, pushing his bulky readers further up onto his face as he scribbles something in his planner before shutting it completely. He peers up when he notices Henry’s in the room, and the entirety of his face goes soft. 

“Hey,” He greets, patting the cushion beside him to the couch, gesturing for Henry to take a seat. So, he does, and he can tell that Alex knows what kind of morning he’d had, just by the way he places his hand on Henry’s shoulder. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Alex asks him. “I’m here to listen, if you do.”

“I think it’s just sleep troubles,” Henry brushes off, holding back his tears once again. “Adjusting to living in a new place again, is all.” 

Alex hums, his nod being one of understanding. “You’ve been through a lot of change in the past month. Can’t really blame you for having skewed emotions because of it. I know you’re probably anxious, and tired, and overall pretty agitated,” Alex lists off, and he feels seen. He feels listened to. “If I can do anything to help, please let me know.”

Henry is overwhelmed; he is every time Alex does that. It’s almost like he can’t quite comprehend the goodness behind the words coming out of his mouth. He really can’t, to a degree. His whole life, he’s been met with enough niceties just to get by, or gaslighting and manipulation that makes him feel stupid and used. Nothing better, nothing worse, nothing in-between. 

“Thank you,” He eventually gets out, and Alex gives him a reassuring smile. “I— you’re too kind, really. Forgive me if it takes me a while to learn to process it.”

“Of course,” Alex replies. He looks like he wanted to say more in that instance, but he leaves it at that. “On a different note, I put a little somethin’ together for you.”

“Oh?” He asks, glad that the conversation is switching to a new topic. “And what would that be?”

“You know how I had you write that list out a few days ago?” Alex brings up, and he nods in response. “Well,” Alex continues, reaching down, grabbing a small mason jar off the floor filled with slips of colorful paper. “I took it upon myself to do this.”

“Oh, Alex.” Henry breathes. He doesn’t know what to do with himself in this moment. He feels a myriad of things, all far too vibrant and strong to elaborate on, or even name. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

“I know, but I wanted to,” Alex insists. “I just— I don’t know how to explain it, but I am so entirely invested in you as a person, Henry.” He goes on to say, and Henry can’t help but scoff. Why such a compassionate, caring, sweet man would give him so much as the time of day is beyond him. Here he is though, sitting on his couch, being given a gift. It’s like a flurry of abstract thoughts, playing in slow motion, right in front of him. “So, I had this idea. You said you wanted to do all of these things— I figured that we could do them together. We could set certain days to do it, or just whenever you’d like to. We could finish the list, one by one.”

“I, uhm,” Henry says, trying to hide his red face and absolutely hideous sniffling. He's not going to cry over this, no matter how bloody precious it is. He can only hope that Alex finds someone worth all his goodness someday, someone that will care about him just as much as he cares about them. “I would like that. I’d like that quite a bit, actually.”

“Wanna do one today?” Alex asks him. 

“I do, but I’m a bit nervous.” He admits. He's still in that weird, unshakable headspace, where having free will and doing as he pleases still feels like a punishable offense. 

“You didn’t put anything dangerous or out-of-line on there,” Alex reminds him. “And you-know-who can’t find you here. This is your opportunity to go buck fucking wild, Hen. If you don’t feel comfortable doing these things yet, that’s fine, but I’d really like to see you try.” He encourages, and Henry feels a sudden zip of confidence.

“I can’t promise it’ll be much fun,” He tries to argue.

“Just bein’ with you is enough fun for me, H.” Alex replies with a smile, and Henry rolls his eyes, only half-joking. “I mean it,” He continues, patting Henry’s knee. “I actually have a lot of trouble connecting with people in the way I do with you. You’re cool.”

Henry snorts. “I think you’re the first person that’s ever called me that.”

“Everyone else needs to hurry up and realize what they’re missing out on, then.”

“Hand me the jar, Diaz.”

Alex unscrews the lid— which wasn’t needed, but was much appreciated— and hands the jar to Henry. As he takes it into his hands, he knows that this courage is definitely not unconditional. There are some more risqué things on these slips of paper, and he knows that. He can only hope that he pulls something tame. He shuts his eyes, sticks his hand inside, and grabs a slip of paper.

He opens his eyes, and unfolds the piece of paper.

“What does it say?” Alex asks, putting the lid back on the jar and setting it on the coffee table after taking it from Henry.

“It says, ‘ _buy your own clothes_ ’. Pretty convenient, considering I’ve got less shirts than there are days in the week,” He chuckles awkwardly, setting the paper slip on the table. 

“Well, we should get a move on then, shouldn’t we?” Alex proposes, grinning fiendishly. 

Henry can’t help his own responding smile. “I suppose we should.”

Nobody has ever told Henry about how completely and utterly stressful it is to shop for new clothes. It isn’t particularly a matter of not finding things in his size, and it isn’t a matter of money. It’s the insanely unnecessary wealth of choices. Before he left, he never had to pick something from a number of options any larger than three. Eric did all the weeding out and premature deciding. This— standing in the middle of a thrift and surplus shop with Olivia Newton-John playing over the speakers— it just feels like too much.

He’s chosen four campy jumpers and a few pairs of jeans when Alex interferes.

“I really like the whole vibe you’ve got goin’ on,” He tells Henry, fooling around with a mug that reads Bigfoot Doesn’t Believe in You Either. “Lots of fun eighties mom energy.”

Henry chuckles, knowing it’s true as he looks through his outfit choices. “Thank you. I, uhm, I had quite a bit of trouble finding stuff that I knew I’d like on myself, actually.”

Alex sets down the insightful cryptid mug, and turns to face Henry properly. “I’m glad that you were able to find clothes within your comfort zone.”

“So am I,” He replies, eyes scanning the shop. “Wish I was a little braver, though. There’s some nice stuff in here, but I probably couldn’t wear it very well.”

“Well, what’s got you so self-conscious, if you don’t like me asking?” Alex questions.

“My arms,” Henry tells him. “My torso, too. I know it’s silly, but Eric always hated it when my arms weren’t covered, or if my shirts fit too tight. The compromise had been jumpers and long-sleeved button downs. I’m nervous to try on anything else, honestly.”

Alex hums. “I’m gonna put a few outfits together for you, can you wait for me in the first dressing room, please?”

Henry pinches his lips together, anxious. “Nothing too crazy.”

Alex grins, and it’s not fiendish or mischievous. It’s completely genuine. “Of course not. I’ll be there with you in a few minutes.”

After fifteen minutes of dead silence and his heartbeat in his head, there’s knocking on Henry’s dressing room door. When he unlocks it, Alex bursts in with armfuls of clothes, setting them on the little bench and locking the door behind himself.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to make a big spectacle out of coming out and showing me every outfit, so I’ll look the other way while you change and all that stuff.”

“Right,” Henry replies, eyeing the pile with a sense of skepticism. 

The first couple of outfits, he's alright with. Semi-loose tee shirts with prints of fine artwork and various leafy plants, as well as tie-dyed name-brand shirts. He’s also been brought ripped skinny jeans, which he doesn’t particularly mind. 

There’s one particular outfit that he’s unsure about, though. A short-sleeved, red button down with shorts that rest a few inches above his knee.

“How do you feel about it?” Alex asks, and Henry turns to face him. 

“I feel silly,” He admits, chuckling embarrassedly. “I don’t think that it looks the best on me.”

“Respectfully, I disagree.” Alex replies, standing and closing the space between them. “It just needs a few extra touches.”

He studies Henry for a moment or two, before gently uncrossing his arms, letting them hang at his sides.

“If you _look_ uncomfortable, you’re going to _feel_ uncomfortable.” He explains.

He keeps himself still and quiet as Alex unbuttons the first few buttons of the top, plays with his hair, and slides his sunglasses onto Henry’s face. He’s sure that there’s an entirely different person in his reflection. 

“It’s the little things.” Alex muses. “I think you look amazing in red.”

Henry resists the urge to hide his face. He can’t deny it; he looks good. Really good. Better than he thinks he’s looked in several years. 

After a few minutes, and grasping his bearings, he finds himself agreeing with him. “Thank you.”

“I think that went pretty well,” Alexander says, lugging all of his odd trinkets and thrift shop treasures into the apartment.   
  


Henry snorts, following behind him up the stairs. “I think so, too.”


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:  
> \- someone has asked me if I know how long this fic will be. The answer is ✨no✨. I’m thinking about speeding some of it up, though, because I don’t want it to get *too* long, you know?  
> \- Alex gets food poisoning in this chapter, you have been warned  
> \- Pez makes an appearance!! Yay!!

The next month comes and goes, and Henry nearly forgets about the jar. Alex goes back to his full-time job in Brooklyn Heights as the new school year comes around, and Henry decides to scrap his last book about the dragon and the prince. It feels too connected to the situation he just got himself out of. He takes on some big editing jobs, and when he’s not working, he’s meal-planning and doing the chores that he took on for Alex. Much to his roommate’s chagrin, he’s taken on paying the rent as well.  
  


He keeps inside for the most part, unless Alex is at home and able to coax him out for his therapy sessions or a breath of fresh air. He knows it’s absolutely ridiculous, but the residual paranoia of being found is definitely there. He’s absolutely horrified of being confronted, and attacked, and possibly worse by Eric. When he told Cash about it, he’d suggested that Henry get a restraining order. He almost feels as if that would be worse, though. Seeing him face-to-face in a court of law. He doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it. Whilst it’s a brilliant, genius idea, he knows he isn’t strong enough for that, yet.

On a separate note, he’s grown quite comfortable around Alex. They’ve established this routine that brings him comfort. Alex wakes up with his alarm, and Henry wakes up half an hour later with his own. They usually share coffee or tea and go over the news together on their phones. Sometimes, a few funny videos are thrown into the mix. Henry puts Alex’s pre-planned lunch together, and hands him his lunchbox and whatever supplies he left out of his work bag as he walks out the door. They go about their separate workdays, and Alex comes home. They usually talk or watch a show before dinner, then find a new film to watch until they part ways for the night. On the weekends, they usually sleep on the couch together.   
  


As of right now, a late morning in August, Alexander is moaning and complaining about how bored he is. Henry thinks it’s pretty amusing, hearing him whine about not having anything to do as he mopes and schleps around the apartment. Alex is an extremely energetic individual— he hates not having anything to do, especially on his two days off from work a week.

It’s then that Henry rememberers the jar, and goes to fetch it from his bedroom. When he returns, Alex seems to perk up. 

“Thank _God_ , I’m bored out of my mind over here.” Alex praises, shimmying up in his seat.

“I know you are.” Henry chuckles, giving the jar a good shake before opening it up.  


“What gave it away?” Alex asks, grinning.

“The fact that you’ve been doing _this_ —“ He says, cutting himself off with a loud, dramatic, over-the-too groan that makes Alex burst into laughter. “All bloody day.”  
  


“I can’t _help_ it!” He insists.

“Of course not.” Henry replies, holding back his laughter as he selects a slip of paper from the jar, handing it to Alex to let him open it up. “What are we doing today?”

Alexander grins. “We’re gonna go get some street food, grab your shoes and keys.”

He nods, putting the lid back on the jar before making his way to his room to find his things. 

Washington Heights is so much more beautiful than the Manhattan socialites once lead him to believe. Filled with vagrants, with disrespectful heathens and dangerous criminals. These are the things he’s heard about his current neighborhood. He’s even heard some of these things from his ex-fiancé. Of course, he’d always taken his word for it, had always stayed away from the Heights and the projects, for the sake of his own safety.

He realizes now that he wasn’t being warned to stay away for his own well-being.

It was because Eric and all of his friends are terribly, unimaginably racist.  
  


He finds it to be absolutely amazing to see things again for the first time without the blinders on. This place was described to him as dangerous, and dreary, and disgusting— he can now see the beauty of the green land, and the vibrant, urban energy. Close-knit communities. Beautiful architecture. Friendly neighbors. 

He can’t believe he actually bought that such a wonderful place could be so terrible; he wonders what other lies he’s been spoon-fed over the years, blindly accepting every word because he never thought Eric would tell him anything that wasn’t the truth.

They run into a few things on their walk; the hairless dog that they thought was a stray donning a hot-pink sweater, Esperanza Ibarra— a kind but firm old woman— wailing along to Rosa Rey from her window, and Mister Mondaca, sitting with his three-year-old daughter Ofelia, teaching her how to play guitar. Henry thinks that out of everything about the Heights, he loves the families the absolute most.

They stumble upon the Dominican food truck, and Alex is teasing him, warning him about the truck’s bad reputation in the town.

“You _really_ wanna try New York street food?” Alex asks, confirming with Henry as they make their way to the back of the line. “Because _this_ hot mess express is as authentic as you can get.”

“I do,” Henry replies, smiling. “Eric thought that the concept of food out of a truck was absolutely barbaric. It brings me great pleasure to know that he would faint if he saw me doing this right now.”

Alex snorts. “You’re gettin’ bold. I like it.”  
  


“I like being bold.” Henry counters with a coy smirk, and Alex lets out a choked laugh. 

“Easy, easy,” He teases, chuckling. “We still have to go over the stipulations for this outing.”

Henry arches a brow. “Lay it all on me.”

“If you get dangerously sick,” Alex starts, tone low so as to not alert the workers or the people in front of them in line. “You _cannot_ get mad at me. Places as poorly run as these give you food poisoning fifty percent of the time.”

“If I get sick, then _you_ ,” He replies, looking Alex in the eyes. “Will be staying home from work to take care of me.”  
  


“I expect the same treatment from you.” Alex insists.

Henry studies his face for a moment— nothing but poorly-conceived mischief and prominent dimples— and nods.

“Of course.”

Alex, ever so adventurous, gets the yaroa. Henry isn’t so daring, and sticks to what he knows— a quesadilla. They get their food, and their drinks, and sit down on the curb beside one another. The food is warm, and smells— well— it smells edible. There doesn’t appear to be anything particularly stupendous about it. He notices that Alexander is watching him as he takes a sip of his lemonade.

“Can I help you?” He asks politely, clearing his throat.

“I wanna see the look on your face when you bite into that,” Alex snickers, and Henry elbows him in the ribs. 

“This looks—“ He takes a moment to consider his wording carefully. “Dodgy. This looks very dodgy, Alex.”

“You _gotta_ do it,” Alex encourages. “Remember why you’re doin’ it, to piss Eric off.”

And well, that’s enough for Henry. He lifts the quesadilla up to his mouth, and takes a large bite of it, trying not to choke out of shock pertaining to Alexander’s loud whoop of approval. It tastes worse than it looks. The meat is burnt and over salted, they forgot the cheese, and there’s cooking oil coating the inside of his throat. He holds it in his mouth, unsure of what to do with it. 

“Do you need to spit?” Alex asks, gently patting him on the back.

He nods frantically, needing to get this god-awful mess out of his mouth and away from his person as soon as possible.

“Go ahead, then.” Alex replies, passing him a few napkins.

After spitting into the napkins, he goes to dispose of his trash in a waste bin a few feet away, returning with a sour look on his face and a bad taste in his mouth.

“That bad, huh?” Alex asks, digging into his yaroa. 

“ _Please_ tell me people don’t eat like this all the time.” Henry begs, lifting his lemonade up to his mouth.

“Like I said before, this place is incredibly shitty,” Alex murmurs. “It’s a typical New York experience to eat at a bad food truck at least once. You’d definitely have to have a death wish to eat here regularly.” He explains.

“I don’t think I’ll be doing that again anytime soon,” He replies, and Alex pats him on the back.

“We’ll go to a nicer one next time,” He says. “Something better suited to your refined uptown palate.” He teases, and Henry snorts.  
  


“Do fuck off.”

“Oh c’mon, H. You know you love me.”

“Whatever.” He replies, and Alex chuckles as he grimaces and takes another sip of his lemonade.

Within six hours of this outing, Alexander is violently ill. Henry has never seen someone get so sick before. Shaking, sweaty, and laying on the bathroom floor; that’s how he finds Alex after being called for. He would say something about the irony of this situation in any other instance, but Alex— he’s looking rather rough.

Henry immediately crouches down next to him. “Bed, or hospital?” He asks, noticing how pale and sweaty Alex is, how the apples of his cheeks are scarlet from his fever, how he's sweating bullets but has prominent goosebumps. It’s all quite pitiful.

“Here,” Alex moans. “I can’t move.”

“Alex, love, I’m sure you’ll feel a lot better in bed.”

“Henry, if you move me, I will get sick on you, _and_ myself. Please, just let me lay here.”

“Alright, guess we’re both staying in here for the evening, then.”

“You don’t have to,” Alex rasps, and when he sounds like that, Henry knows that he’s only saying this out of kindness and respect. “I can take care of myself.”

“You take care of me all the time,” He counters, rising up to gather some important things. “This is the very least that I can do in return.”

As he’s making his way about the apartment, he grabs a thermometer, and some water and crackers. He knows that Alex is in no shape to test anything right now, but he might be later. When he’s back in the bathroom, he wets a washcloth and wrings it out, and grabs an old towel to place under Alex’s head; he can’t imagine how hard the floor must be.   
  


Wordlessly, he tends to him throughout the night. He takes his temperature often, keeps the washcloth wet and cold and keeps it pressed it to his face, holds his hair back for him when he’s sick, and gives him back and shoulder rubs when he tells him how sore he is. Henry knows that he’s going a bit overboard, but Alex, very obviously, doesn’t handle being sick very well. Alexander falls asleep with his face buried in Henry’s chest late that night, trying to block the world out as he suffers from a bad migraine.  
  


The second day offers a few small improvements. He doesn’t get as sick as much, and he’s able to slowly move around. He’s still achy and feverish, and the water and cracker test was a no-go, but he’s visibly improving, and Henry feels proud to see that. Halfway through the day, Alex remembers that he has work the next day. Henry informs him that he’s already called him out for both Monday and Tuesday. He seems to relax at that. All in all, day one and day two are fairly similar. 

Day three is the day where his steady recovery is the most apparent. Alex only gets sick once. His fever is slowly going down. He can move about a lot more freely; Henry places him on the couch, practically swaddling him in every throw blanket he can find. He can drink water and eat a few crackers without it upsetting his stomach. Henry can’t help but think about how incredibly lucky Alex got with this; it could have been so much worse.

“You should invite Pez over,” Alex says sometime that evening, curled against Henry’s chest.   
  


“Now, why would I do that, especially when you don’t feel good?” Henry returns, thick brown curls wrapping around his fingers as he massages Alex’s scalp. He’s quite responsive to touch, leaning into it completely when he hurts the most. So gentle. So kind and quiet. Even when he’s hurting. He doesn’t think he’s ever met someone like this before; endlessly patient and good. 

“Because,” Alex replies feebly. “I know you miss him, and I haven’t been good company lately.”

Henry shushes him softly, pressing the back of one hand to his forehead. Still warm, but nothing to write home about. “You’ve been sick, Alex. It’s not your job to constantly keep me occupied.”

“Just because you miss him, then.” Alex continues, brushing off his first point. “I think it’ll be good for you.”

Henry shushes him again, trying not to smile at his insistence. “He’ll excite you far too much.”

“I can go lay in bed,” Alex offers.

“What if you need me?” He replies. He feels anxious, leaving him alone in such a state, even if he’ll only be down the hall. 

“I can text you,” Alex assures him. He lifts one shaky arm up, and pats Henry twice on the chest. “You think too much, H.”

“Are you—“ He starts, cut off by Alex.

“I’m completely, one-hundred percent sure. Just set me up in my room, and I’ll be good to go.”

So, Henry does exactly that. He frees Alexander from his blanket cocoon, and helps him hobble off to his bedroom. He has him change into proper pajamas first, and tucks him back in, piling the throws on until Alex is snug again. He sets the water and box of crackers on his nightstand, and reiterates that if he needs anything— anything at all— he is to text him as soon as possible. Alex is half asleep, but nods in agreement anyways. Henry can’t help but smile as he readjusts the blankets a final time, tucking them under his chin, before he dims the light and leaves the room. 

Pez is at the apartment within an hour of being called. He isn’t dressed in one of his usual over-the-top, campy, sequined displays, opting to wear a baby pink Juicy Couture tracksuit instead. He’s got a grocery bag in each fist, and his smile is lighting up the room.   
  


They don’t talk about what happened two months ago, they don’t really talk at all. Henry puts on _The Crown_ , and Pez puts some stuff he got for Alex as get-well gifts in the freezer and pantry. They sit next to each other on the couch, watching decades-old drama unfold in front of them as they eat and make snide comments under their breath to each other. It’s refreshing, to be near him again. He’s surprised that they’ve managed to merge so seamlessly back into friendship; it’s like the last six years never happened in the first place.

“Why do you like this show so much?” Pez asks, shoving a handful of kettle-cooked chips into his mouth. “I honestly don’t get the appeal. It’s just four straight seasons of flaunted privilege.”

“Because I love drama, but I hate being part of it,” Henry explains with another spoonful of chocolate ice cream straight from the pint. “A lot of this shite happened before I was even born. Life-changing decisions are being made at polo matches. Historical sex scandals. It’s almost therapeutic, in a way.”  
  


Pez hums, arm reaching over Henry, dipping a chip in his ice cream before lifting it to his mouth.  
  


“That looks absolutely _foul_.” Henry snorts, grimacing as he watches his friend eat the offending concoction.   
  


Pez does it again, placing it right in front of Henry’s mouth. 

“Not bad,” Henry relents mid-chew.

“Doubt my genius again, strumpet,” Pez teases with a wolfish grin. “See what happens.”  
  


The banter between them continues on for quite some time, transitioning from topic to topic. Idle conversation has never been something that Henry is particularly good at, but it comes quite naturally with Pezza— it always has. 

“Do I dare ask about your Julia Roberts moment?” Pez asks through a mouthful of fruit-infused water later on that evening, sounding hesitant, like he’s just stepped foot onto an active mine field.

Henry sighs, muting the television. “You want to know why I ran out on him?” 

“Only if you’re comfortable with telling me.”

“Would you like the long version, or the summed-up version?”  
  


“Whichever you prefer, my treasure.”

“In short, I knew that he was only a few temper-tantrums away from hitting me.” He explains. “To elaborate upon that, I had been texting Alex, and he thought I was cheating. So, he responded by throwing my phone so hard that it shattered, backing me against a wall, and threatening me with the possibility of violence.” He finishes. It feels weird, how he can just say that, and feel nothing but a twinge of anger, a fleeting pain in his chest. He isn’t sure if it’s improvement, or if he’s just suppressing his true emotions.   
  


“Oh,” Pez gasps, nearly inaudible. “My God.”

“I know,” Henry replies. He used to feel ashamed, but now, in a sort of sick way, he feels like laughing. He’s been doing that a lot lately, just trying to laugh it all off. He knows that it’s not working, but it’s providing him with temporary relief.

“I don’t really know how to respond to that,” Pez admits. “I’m glad you realized what was going on and got out of there.”

“So am I.” Henry breathes. “It’s kind of funny to me, really. I thought I was so in love with him. Now I can’t remember a singular instance in which I was genuinely happy during our relationship.”

“He was a piece of shit.” Pez declares.

“He really was,” Henry concedes, turning to Pez. “Before he told me we weren’t allowed to contact— when you were still a very permanent fixture in my life— when did you first realize that he was bad for me?”  
  


“That’s actually an easy one for me,” Pez confesses. “Like, _really_ easy.”

“Tell me about it.” He implores, desperate to know.

“You were so vivacious, all those years ago. So lively and adventurous. You didn’t take shit from anyone, especially not men. Then, about a year or so into your relationship with him, any little burst of energy or extroversion you had was immediately snuffed out. Like someone blowing out a candle. He shamed you in public, and you acted like you didn’t care, but I could see it in your eyes that his words were tearing you apart.”

Henry doesn’t know what to make of this. He remembers Pez pointing this exact sort of thing out while they were both making their way around Manhattan. He remembers shouting at him in the street, telling him that he was _wrong_ , that he needed to mind his own business and _stay out_ of his relationship with Eric. That had to be four, no, five years ago.   
  


“I think,” He starts, taking a second to collect his thoughts. “I think that’s when it all started getting bad. I was just too naive to see it.”

“You thought you were in love,” Pez reasons. “Nobody is going to punish you for wanting to be loved.”

_I already was,_ Henry wants to tell him. _By the person who was supposed to love me most._

Instead, he lays his head on Pez’s shoulder, shutting his eyes and letting out a long, shaky sigh when a loving peck is pressed to his temple. “I’ve missed you, Pezza.”

“I’ve missed you too, darling.”  
  


With that, the television is unmuted, and they roll into another episode chronicling the drama of the British royal family. 

Alex doesn’t text him that night, and he falls asleep with Pez on the couch.

Whilst freedom can be suffocating, it can also be healing. It can give people closure.

That is what Henry has learned this week.

He’s learned that, and he’s learned not to eat at the bright orange Dominican food truck a couple blocks down.

Both are very valuable pieces of information.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt your regularly scheduled angst with some fluff and subtle romantic tension building!! Consider this to be Henry’s major upswing; we’ll have a rough bump in the road next chapter, but Alex will definitely help him through it. Get ready for platonic physical affection and gay bars on Halloween!! Much love!! 💕

The transition from August, through September, and into October is completely seamless. It’s been a set of months filled with plenty of ups, and downs, and generally pleasant moments. There’s been a few obstacles in the way and rocky roads that he’s gone down, sure, but he was able to get through it, take a few deep breaths, and move on with his goals for himself in mind. Henry finally feels as if he can call the apartment, and Washington Heights, his home. The air is crisp, leaves are turning orange and brown, and he doesn’t think the neighborhood has ever looked more lovely. He can only imagine how everything will look this winter— with frost and ice and snow everywhere. The mental image he’s conjuring up is rather enchanting, and he hopes the reality will be able to live up to his expectations.   
  


He’s scratched quite a few things off of his list— some being more tame than others. Bar hopping at NYC speakeasies and getting drunk on cheap whiskey, walking through Bushwick to look at all the breathtaking graffiti and street art, getting his ears pierced; he’s done _so_ many things that he never thought he’d be able to do. Everyday seems to bring another small victory, another unexpected surprise. He never realized how truly trapped he was until he started listening to those who cared about him most, until he ran for his life, until he set himself free. There are scarcely days where he misses him at this point, but when he does, he just reminds himself of everything he’s accomplished and gained without him, and it pulls him right back out of that dangerous mindset. He’s yet to tell anyone, but he’s actually writing a book about his experiences— he’s planning to release it sometime after New Year’s.   
  


Therapy, well, therapy’s been fairly good. He’s been learning how to work through his emotions in healthier ways. He has a tendency to brush them off until it becomes too much to handle, according to Cash. His anxiety is also a lot worse than had been estimated, apparently. Cash has not only suggested that he pick up a hobby, but that he looks into getting an emotional support animal— he’s gotten an ESA letter from his physician and everything.

So, he’s picked up needlework as his hobby. It started off with him fixing up Alexander’s old clothes— a stray button needing to be put back on, a little bit of hemming, a patch on the thigh of his trousers. This evolved into embroidering patterns and images onto bare jumpers. Now, he’s started knitting his own creations by hand. He’s currently working on a lavender-hued scarf for Pez.

Alex took him to the closest shelter as soon as he got cleared for the emotional support animal. He knew right away that he would prefer a dog over a cat. When they got there, the selection was small, to say the least. Quite a few noble dogs; two golden retrievers and a German shepherd. The one that caught his eye, however, was a bewildered little beagle with a silly expression on his face; he’s rather handsome, with his black, tan, and white coat. He’d immediately gravitated towards Henry, sniffing him and pushing up against his leg. Henry knee that he was the one to take home.

“What’re we naming him?” Alex had asked on the drive home.

“I’m not sure yet,” Henry replied, petting the snoring pup in his lap. “I quite like David, don’t you?”

Alex couldn’t help but snort at such an unexpected suggestion. “ _David?_ ”

“Yes.”

“Like a tiny businessman?”

Henry giggles. “After Bowie.”

“Why not just call him Bowie?”

“ _Because_ ,” Henry had told him, blessing the dog in question as he sneezes, shushing and cooing him back to sleep. “Every man should have a bit of mystery surrounding him.”  
  


“That’s precious.” Alex responded, placing his hand on Henry’s leg. 

Henry had only smiled and continued petting the dog. “Perhaps.”

They _did_ , in fact, decide on the name David for their new addition. David’s actually been adjusting quite wonderfully; he’s constantly following Henry around the house, and sleeping wedged between him and Alex whenever they’re sitting beside one another on the couch. He’s calmed Henry from quite a few panic attacks, that’s for certain. He can’t thank Cash enough for making the suggestion.

Today, he’ll be taking David on his first public outing. Alex’s sister, June and her wife, Nora, are both in town. They’ve all decided to go to brunch; he’s invited Bea, just to have another person there that he knows.

“How are people supposed to dress for brunch?” Alex asks, standing in the doorway of Henry’s bedroom, still wearing his pajamas.

Henry sighs dramatically, rolling up his sleeves and messily tucking his jumper into his jeans. “How on _earth_ did you get by before me?” He teases, gently shoving Alex across the hallway and into his own room.

“I didn’t; I did nothing but cry about how hard my life is all day.” Alex replies, just as much melodrama and sarcasm in his own tone.

“Oh, hush,” Henry replies, making his way over to Alex’s closet and opening the door. “Brunch isn’t a formal occasion, but you’re usually supposed to dress a little nicer.” He explains, moving hangers down the iron rod.

“How do you just _know_ this information?” Alex asks, confusion and shock apparent in his voice.

“I almost married into a family of wealthy conservative arseholes,” He says briefly. “I was given multiple lectures on this throughout my last relationship.” 

“That’s gross.”

“Tell me about it, sweetheart.” He responds dryly, lobbing a turquoise v-neck in Alexander’s general direction. “What do I need to know going into this about Nora and June?”

“Uhm, June’s a travel journalist for the _New York Times_ ,” Alex starts, pulling off his sleep shirt and swapping it out for the sweater. “If you run out of things to say, just ask her about where she’s been. That’ll get you through any conversation with her. Nora’s an astronomer, loves talking about space. Got her undergrad in statistics. Was gonna be a software developer, until she talked to a couple people she works with now. Fuckin’ _hilarious_ — she can make just about anybody laugh.”

“Sounds like they don’t get to see one another very often,” Henry comments, tossing him a pair of slim-fit, navy blue chinos. 

“They don’t, but they make it work,” Alex responds, sounding rather fond. “Anything else I need to know about Bea?”

“Nothing you don’t already know.” Henry murmurs, watching Alex stare at himself in the mirror. “You look good.” He tells him, and Alex really does look nice today. It’s not the same kind of put-together that he is when he’s headed to work, and it’s nothing like the comfortable casual looks he tends to wear when it’s just the two of them. He’s not exactly sure how he should describe it.

“Would you say that I look ‘ _exceptionally fit_ ’, then?” Alexander teases, making fun of Henry’s accent.

Something spasms in Henry’s chest, and he rolls his eyes.

“If that will help you sleep at night, then yes.” He suffices, and Alex tuts.

“You’re so _mean_ to me, H.” Alex whines, fixing his hair in the mirror. “Here I was, ready for the white picket fence and two-point-five kids.”

“Oh, you _poor dear_ ,” Henry counters, voice oozing with sickly-sweet sarcasm. “Perhaps you’ll find someone that loves you someday.”

“ _Ouch_.”   
  


“Hush; you really do look good, you know.” He finally relents.

“Thanks,” Alex says, and it’s so genuine that Henry wants to squeeze him. “So do you. Let’s get David hooked up and get goin’. I’m pretty sure we’re already runnin’ late.”

“Right,” Henry replies. 

He’s unsure as to why, but his face is unbearably warm.

Brunch ends up being an absolute success. June is an absolute gem of a woman, and Nora deserves her own bloody comedy special. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt more at ease with a group of individuals in his entire life. He adores both women, and he’s fairly sure that they like him as well. The way that June picks on Alex reminds him of himself and Bea, and Nora manages to humiliate him in at least thirty different ways over the course of their fifty minute meal. It has Henry laugh-crying into his rosemary gin cocktail every single time. Alex has to pass him a napkin to dab at his eyes at one point. 

Speaking of Alex, Henry doesn’t think he’s ever seen him like this, all rosy-cheeked with a radiant smile on his face that’s practically non-stop. Laughing and saying the most hilarious, vulgar things, an arm draped comfortably over his shoulders while he runs through Joni Mitchell and Heart’s entire discographies song by song with Beatrice. A colorful, absolutely unstoppable social butterfly, up until the very end. 

Everyone stands up and swaps hugs and pecks goodbye after Nora pays the bill. 

“Thanks for having us, guys!” June says, her voice taking on a sing-song tone when she stands on her toes to kiss Henry’s cheek.

“Thanks for comin’ in,” Alex replies, chuckling when Nora squeezes him a little too tightly. “I’ve missed y’all, and figured it wouldn’t hurt if I invited Henry along with me.”

“You did good with him,” Nora acknowledges, stepping back and gripping Alexander by his shoulders. “You better treat that boy right, and don’t you let him go, you hear me?” She warns playfully.

Alex gives Henry a look of confusion that he immediately reciprocates. 

“We’re not dating, Nora.” Alex tells her.

“You’re _not?_ ” June pipes up, looking the most confused out of the whole group.  
  


“Not that I’m aware of, no.” Henry replies, a bit taken aback by this assumption.

“Oh,” Nora says, and it’s her turn to look confused, apparently, her thick, dark brows furrowing. “We thought you were because of the matching outfits.” She explains.

“I thought so, too.” Bea admits, giggling pleasantly. 

Henry looks from himself to Alex; his own outfit consists of a turquoise-to-navy gradient sweater and dark wash skinny jeans, and Alexander’s consists of—

_Oh._

A turquoise v-neck and navy chinos.

Whoops.

“I didn’t even notice that.” Alex admits.

“Neither did I,” Henry responds, chuckling embarrassedly.   
  


“Sorry,” June apologizes, and Alex quickly shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it, the mix-up is completely understandable.”

“I’m surprised we never noticed it, really.” Henry tells the lot of them, still dumbfounded that this actually managed to happen, that they actually walked out the door like this. Unbelievable. Completely, bloody unbelievable.

“Well,” Nora says, grin full of mischief and eyes sparkling beautifully with chaos. “What I said still stands, in my opinion.”

June gives her a dirty look; Henry finds that they even each other out in the most adorable way. 

They exchange their final goodbyes, and he piles back into the car with Alex and David. The ride is mostly silent, and the awkward tension hangs thick in the air, so tangible that one could cut through it with a blade. This hardly ever happens between the two of them. It feels odd, feels unnatural, and— quite frankly— a wee bit disturbing.  
  


“Listen,” Alex speaks up, putting his hand on Henry’s knee. He’s been doing that quite a bit, as of lately. Both casually, and to provide him with comfort. “You, uhm, you don’t need to worry about what Nora was talkin’ about back there. I know that you’re still working through a lot of stuff, and I didn’t think to tell her about any of that. I’m sorry she said that, actually. She shouldn’t have said anything like that in the first place.”

Henry feels a pang of sympathy in his chest, strong and persistent. He can’t imagine how he felt when the girls made their assumptions known. How worried he must have been for his reaction. Henry’s been doing a lot better, though— so good, in fact, that he only sees Cash on a monthly basis, now. He knows what to do when things upset him, how to calm himself down when something upsets or triggers him. And that’s the funny thing: he didn’t get angry or upset by what the girls said. He was more confused than anything, really. A little bit embarrassed, perhaps, but certainly not upset or angry. Not in the slightest.

He immediately tries to soothe Alex, tries to calm him down about the whole ordeal.

“Alex, it’s not anyone’s fault,” He insists, placing his hand atop Alexander’s rough warm one, squeezing it. “I would have thought the exact same thing, if I were her. It’s only logical.” He chuckles.

“I mean— I know— but I still feel guilty about it.” Alex replies, gnawing on his bottom lip as he rounds the corner. “Like, you’ve been through so much, and I’m sure the very last thing you want is this to be thrust upon you.”

“I actually didn’t mind it,” Henry admits. “I didn’t read too much into it, because I knew it was an honest, genuine mistake. Nobody’s _thrusting_ anything upon anybody. I can understand why you’re upset, but there’s really no need.” He tells him, surprised when Alex sighs again. “Hey,” He says. Alex has his jaw set, staring out the front windshield. “Look at me, please?”

Alex turns to face him, and his expression softens. He’s still undoubtedly frazzled about the whole scenario, but everything looks more schooled. More calm. “Yes?”

“I just want to thank you,” Henry starts, giggling at Alex’s surprised expression. “You just— you’re so unbelievably patient with me. Have been for the entire seven months that we’ve known each other. The two months when I was too oblivious to leave, the month where I refused to leave my bed or talk to anyone, and then the entire time we’ve lived together. I’ve probably got two other people that are as fiercely loyal, and caring, and protective as you are. When I was the subject of his manipulation, of his sickening desire, you stuck by me until I realized what was happening, and as we both can see, you’re still by my side, so—“ He pauses, clearing his friend. “I guess this me thanking you for being with me.” He mumbles. “For staying with me and being my good friend. You’re worth everything to me.”

Alex purses his lips together, and the hand on his knee squeezes just a little bit tighter. Henry notices after a few seconds that he’s begun to cry. 

“Don’t cry,” Henry whispers, reaching up to wipe at his tears with his thumb. “ _Please_ , Alex. Please don’t cry.” He coos. God, he just works so hard, all the time, at home and at work. He deserves to let his guard down now and again. 

“‘M sorry,” Alex mutters in response, setting his head on his shoulder.

“It’s alright.” He assures him, pulling his fingers through his thick brown curls. 

“I just—“ He pauses, taking a big, deep breath before letting it out. “Hearing you say that really got to me for some reason.”

“I understand.”

“I think I would do just about anything for you, Henry.” Alex tells him, and it’s like a violent, stunning strike of glorious lightning right to his heart. “I mean it when I say that, too.”

“Believe me,” Henry replies, mouth dry, almost as if someone’s stuffed it with cotton. “I feel the exact same about you.”

They lapse back into comfortable silence, but they stay the way that they are, with Henry occasionally wiping stray tears from Alex’s eyes and cheeks the whole way home.

  
  


A week passes by in a fast-paced blur, and it’s October 31st— otherwise known as Halloween. Henry never celebrated the holiday as a child, and Eric refused to entertain the idea of the holiday, of even sitting in the living room to watch a horror film with the lights off. With every day that goes by, Henry realizes more and more that he was about to marry a stiff, pompous, excuse for a man. Who doesn’t enjoy holiday festivities of _any_ kind? What kind of pure callousness is _that?_ It befuddles him to this very day. 

He may or may not have gone a _little_ too far with all the decorating. Fake spiderwebs in every corner he could find, makeshift bats hanging from the light fixtures, bloody hand window clings, purple and orange fairy lights; he’s even got little ghosts hanging from the ceiling in the living room. He’d done it all a few days ago while Alex was at work. It had been quite a lovely shock for him.   
  


Today, they haven’t done much; they've lounged on the couch with David, and eaten about a fourth of the candy meant for trick-or-treaters. Alex has put on a few thrillers that are especially bad, but they haven’t been paying much attention.

“We should do something fun today,” Alex suggests. It’s been another one of those days where he’s flipped between cat naps and bouncing off the walls. He can’t help but wonder where it all goes during the work week.

“Like what?” Henry asks, looking up from his cellphone. His roommate looks especially cozy right now— glasses, socks, and well loved grey sweats.  
  


“I dunno,” Alex replies, checking the time on his phone, before looking back to the television. “Something from the jar, maybe.”

Henry hums. “That sounds alright; I’m pretty bored myself right now.”

“I’ll go get it,” Alex offers, rising up off the couch and padding into Henry’s room to retrieve it.

“Thank you!” He calls after him, petting David when he nuzzles into his chest. 

When Alex returns, he immediately hands the jar to Henry, who sets down his phone to accept it. He gives it a few good, strong shakes, before unscrewing the lid and grabbing the slip of paper right on top. He unfolds it, reads it, and groans.

Alex snickers. “What’re we doin’?”

Henry shoves the piece of paper at him.

“Gay club,” Alex reads aloud, smirking. “Nice.”

“I’ve got no bloody idea as to what I’m about to get myself into tonight.” Henry whines, pressing his red, burning face into the palms of his hands. 

“We should invite Pez,” Alex tells him. “For fun, and moral support.”

Henry sighs, shaking his head before lifting his face up. “Tell him to bring me a costume.”

They’ve both already done three shots each of Smirnoff Peach by the time Pez arrives at the apartment.

“Hello, my loves!” He announces from the living room.

“In here!” Alex calls from his bedroom. He’s already in full costume; a cowboy. Henry’s laying on his bed, sprawled out like a starfish, hiccuping and giggling.  
  


“Say it again,” He demands, and Alex gives him a funny look.

“No,” Alexander replies, sticking his chin straight up in the air. “I don’t think I will.”

“ _Please?_ ” Henry asks, struggling to get the word out between painful hiccups that make his chest seize up. “For me?”

Alex groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. “You’ve learned my weakness,” He accuses. “You know I can’t say no to you.”

Henry lets out a goofy chuckle. “Perhaps.”

Alex groans yet again, schools his features, and gives Henry a devastatingly, painfully southern, “ _Howdy_.”

Henry nearly pisses himself laughing, wheezing and holding his sides while his eyes water. It doesn’t seem like it would be that funny to most people, but he’s drunk, and everything feels like one big comedic clusterfuck. 

Pez walks in, dressed from head to toe in red. Red crop top. Red high-waisted shorts. Red, knee-high, latex boots with a stiletto heels. There are little devil horns perched atop his head, and his makeup is very, very dramatic. He gasps, jaw dropping as he grins. “Alex,” He accuses, turning towards the supposed offender. “What on earth have you done to _my_ Henry?”

“He—“ Henry giggles, cutting himself off. “We did a couple shots.“

Pez smiles warmly at him. “I can see that. Are you ready to see what I’ve got picked out for you, you last minute planner?”

“It wasn’t originally last minute,” Henry tells him, taking deep breaths to keep himself from getting over-excited. “I just realized that I can’t dress up like Oscar Wilde— like I originally wanted to do— because then people wouldn’t know who I am, and I would get the same question all bloody night.”

“That’s true,” Pez admits. “We can take photos with you in that costume later this week, though. I’ll put them on Instagram.”

“Sounds good.”  
  


“So, what’s he gonna be?” Alex asks, his words coming out a bit messy.

“I’m so glad you asked,” Pez replies, setting his bag on the bed. He pulls out matching white sweater and pair of jeans, and a pair of big fake wings. “Our darling boy will exist in his true form tonight; an angel.”

Henry groans at the compliment, burying his face in the pillows. Muffled, he can hear Alexander thanking Pez for coming up with the idea of matching his costume to Henry’s; Henry finds it endearing that Alex is so concerned about his safety— it’s incredibly sweet of him.

After a few minutes of resistance, Pez is helping Henry get dressed, shoving his arms and legs through the holes, making pinched faces at him when he doesn’t cooperate. He even tries to put a little makeup on him, but Henry makes him stop after putting glitter on his eyelids.

“Henry,” Alex starts, listing off a set of rules for him. “What do you do if a guy won’t stop talking to you after you tell him to leave?”

“Come find you or Pez.” He replies, legs a little wobbly.

“What do you do,” Pez starts, wiping away excess glitter with a baby wipe. “If anyone besides the bartender gives you a drink?”  
  


“I throw it away, or just don’t take it in the first place.” He slurs.

“Good, good,” Alex replies. “Let one of us know if you’re going home with someone, alright?”  
  


“What d‘you mean?” Henry replies. 

“Let us know before you sneak off with a random hookup, darling.” Pez elaborates, and Henry snickers.

“Oh my,” Henry sighs. “I can already tell the both of you that nothing like that will be happening.” He assures him, trying to keep himself from laughing. “I never sleep with strangers, and I never will. I need to have an emotional connection with someone to do that sort of thing.”

“How the hell did _Eric_ get any, then?” Pez snarks.

“I just let him do whatever, he had my consent.” Henry explains. “It was boring and awkward, though. Found myself staring at the ceiling quite a bit. He only made me finish half the time. Talk about _tragic_.”

Alex sputters, and Pez cackles. 

“Henry Fox, you are an icon.” Pez insists.

He smiles, giving Alex a cheeky wink. “I know.”

Henry’s having an absolute blast at the club. He’s tried to stay relatively close to Alex and Pez, but once he saw Pez grinding with abandon on a complete stranger, he decided that Alex would be the one to follow around for the evening.

Tonight, he’s danced more than he ever has in his entire life. Granted, Alexander has to teach him quite a few moves, and teases him by saying things like ‘ _ooh, get it!_ ’ and ‘ _fuck it up, white boy!’_. He has fun, though. The feeling he gets here, just dancing and hanging out with his friends— it’s a sense of happiness and belonging that he hopes won’t be drowned out by the umpteenth vodka shot of the night. He hopes he remembers this feeling until the world caves in.

He finds himself sitting at the bar to take a rest from all the walking around while Alex chats up a drag queen six or seven feet away. He’s approached by a man dressed as a sexy police offer, and they chat for a while. Henry forgets his name as soon as he hears it, but he’s funny, and he’s got a nice beard and painted fingernails. After a few minutes, he looks around, and finds Alex with a beer in his hand, giving him a fond, affectionate smile.

“Excuse me,” Henry tells the fake cop. “I’ve got to go talk to my cowboy, now.”

“No problem,” The guy excuses him smiling.

Henry looks down at the floor, his vision swirling.

“Need some help?” The guy asks.

“Yeah,” Henry admits. “I think I’m a little wasted.”

“Sounds about right.”

The man in the fake-cop costume helps him down onto the ground, and Henry thanks him again before making his way over to Alex. 

“Who was that?” Alex asks him, curious.

“I have absolutely no idea,” He admits in a stage-whisper. “He’s really nice, though. Funny, too.”

Alex hums. “You like him?” He asks, and Henry shakes his head.

“No,” He replies quickly. He doesn’t know why, but he’s certain that man is not the one meant for him. “I don’t think he’s really my type.”

One of Alex’s brows arches, and he chuckles. “What’s your type, then?”

Henry shrugs. “I don’t know. Excitable. Cute. Loyal. Sweet. Energetic.” He lists, putting his hands on Alex’s shoulders to steady himself.

“You literally just described the human version of a golden retriever,” Alex snorts, slipping an arm around Henry’s waist when his legs go wobbly. “ _Jesus_ , H. How many drinks have you had since we’ve been here?”

“Three or four,” He mumbles, burying his face into the crook of Alex’s neck. “Blurgh. Maybe five. I lost count.”

Alex chuckles, and Henry can feel the vibrations against his skin. It makes him laugh, too. “Are you tired?” He asks him.

“Uh-huh,” Henry replies, tightening his hold on him.

“Do you wanna go home and go to bed?”

“Yeah,” He sighs, fighting back his lightweight nausea. “Let’s go home.”

They stumble out of the club, and halfway down the street, before Henry realizes that the only thing keeping him upright is the strength and willpower of God Himself. 

“Alex,” He warns. “I think I’m about to fall—“

“Not in my watch,” Alexander replies grabbing Henry by his waist, pulling the both of them flush together. “On the count of three, I want you to jump up, okay? One, two, three—“

Henry jumps up, wrapping his arms around Alex’s neck, and his legs around his waist, clinging as tight as he can. As they start down the street again, Alex starts rubbing his back. 

“You’re gonna have such a bad hangover tomorrow.” Alex tells him, and Henry hears the smile in his voice.

“Shhhhh,” Henry tells him, pressing his index finger to Alex’s soft, warm lips. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

Alex laughs, and Henry buries his face in his neck as they continue on their journey, homeward bound.

He’s out like a light within minutes.

Henry wakes up the next morning with a dry mouth, full-body aches, and a raging headache.

As fun as last night was, he’s beginning to have regrets. 

He notices that he’s not in his own room; he’s in Alex’s, judging by the pastel orange walls that make his eyes burn. He moves around; he’s in his pajamas, and David’s laying on his stomach. The light pouring in from the crack in the windows is simply too much for him to handle, so he pushes his face into the pillows to block it out.

The door creaks open, and he groans.

“Good afternoon,” Alex murmurs, tone gentle and sweet.

“Hi,” Henry replies, voice husky and tired-sounding.

He hears footsteps, feels a hand in his hair. “How are we feeling?”

“ _Bad_.” He replies, being completely honest. It feels like someone’s swatting at his eyes with a golf club. 

“I’m sorry,” Alex coos sympathetically. “Do you want me to get the Pedialyte?” He questions.

“Yes, please.” He groans in response.

“Strawberry or grape?”

“Strawberry, please.”

“Okay,” Alex tells him, carding through his hair one final time. “I’ll be back before you know it.”  
  


“Alright.”

He hears more footsteps, and sighs, relaxing further into the bed.

He’s so grateful to have Alex Claremont-Diaz in his life.


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: MENTIONS OF DRUG AND ALCOHOL ADDICTION
> 
> ALSO HENRY HAS A PANIC ATTACK
> 
> TL;DR: feelings are messy and yucky and Henry doesn't know how to recognize his feelings in a healthy way.

They’ve been in the car for twenty-six hours straight.   
  


Henry wishes that this current situation is nothing more than a joke or a dream. 

He and Alexander had agreed quite some time ago that they were going to spend Thanksgiving with Alex’s family, and New Year’s with his own. Christmas didn’t count in this scenario; neither one of them want to attend any sort of church service this year. A quiet day inside is more than enough for the both of them. They thought briefly about going up to Vermont with June and Nora for Hanukkah when they offered an invitation, but ultimately decided against it; Henry’s never been to a synagogue service before, and he wouldn’t want to be intrusive or ignorant. So, they’re putting a tree up, and staying in the apartment together. They’ve already agreed on no presents, at Henry’s insistence.

To bring things back to the present, he’s having a little anxiety over meeting Alex’s family today. Actually, he’s more worried about how his parents will be acting towards one another when they finally get there. According to Alex, Ellen and Oscar tend to be prone to screaming matches that he— and his stepfather, Leo— always end up breaking up. Apparently, Oscar’s bringing his friend Raphael this year, so there’s going to be extra reinforcement in order to keep Alex away from their drama as much as possible. Henry hasn’t really heard or seen a loud argument since he left. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to handle it. David’s with them, of course, but if they start yelling, he knows that something inside him will trigger his fight or flight reflexes.

  
From what he’s gathered, Oscar’s letting Alex have free reign on just about everything— except for the turkey. Which means that, starting at six in the morning, they’re going to be juggling cooking breakfast and lunch together. They’ve got a few laminated recipes in a one-inch binder, some vodka for cocktails, and a ton of wishful thinking. He hopes that it will be enough to get them by.

The roads are growing more long and winding as they drive. Henry’s never been to Texas before, but he thinks that he loves it already. Everything’s bigger here, almost to a comical extent, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen such beautiful landscapes before, well, besides the countryside of southern France. It’s a close second, though. 

“Should be there in about fifteen minutes.” Alex tells him.

His stomach double-knots itself. “Mhm,” He replies, playing with David’s ears as he watches towering trees and lush green grass whir by, his vision blurring and blending everything together as they drive.

A thumb swipes across his cheek, and he shuts his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Alex asks, and he has to keep himself from laughing. Nothing's actually wrong of course— he knows good and well that he’s overreacting about all of this— but his anxiety is eating away at him bit by bit, and he can’t help it, or do anything to stop it.

“Nothing's _wrong_ ,” He replies. He tries to focus on his breathing, the warm scratchiness of Alex’s fingers, the feel of David’s fur, the sound of Amy Winehouse’s voice pouring through the speakers— anything he possibly can as he tries to keep himself grounded. “I’m just a bit worried about meeting your family, is all.”  
  


“Oh Henry,” Alex tells him, and he opens his eyes at this, looking to him. His hand has dropped to Henry’s knee, and he’s got one hand gripping the wheel, foot pressing the gas pedal. “You don’t need to worry, sweetheart. Mom and Leo are the sweetest people. Dad and Raf might give you a little bit of shit here and there, but that means that they like you. If they start jumpin’ down each other’s throats, I already told Leo and Raf, like we agreed on. I’ll get you out of the house as fast as I can, okay?”

“Okay,” Henry nods, both agreeing with Alex and making an attempt at reassuring himself. “Okay.”

Alex squeezes his knee, then puts both hands back on the wheel.

He nearly has the audacity to ask him to put his hand back.

When they get to the lake house, it’s all pecks on cheeks and handshakes and bear hugs. Alex’s face lights up beautifully around them all; he can tell that he’s missed them all terribly. They’re quite the interesting bunch, really. There’s Alexander’s mother, Ellen, with her thick drawl, quick wit, and strawberry blonde hair. She has this powerful way of holding herself, of speaking— Henry can’t help but think that she should have been a politician. Next, there’s Oscar, his father. He can see where Alex gets all his energy from, and his smile. He decides that Oscar’s overwhelming, but in a good way. Then comes Leo, Ellen’s current husband. He’s very distinctly Italian; he reminds Henry of Stanley Tucci in _The Lovely Bones_ , face-wise. He seems loving, but rather eccentric. Alex tells him that he’s a mechanical engineer and that he’s got a patent for an improved-upon version of that water filtering straw. Finally, there’s Raphael, Oscar’s friend from Colorado. He’s got impeccably kept hair, contrasted by five o’ clock shadow. He’s got a crooked smile, knobby knuckles, and he’s managed to sneak outside and have a smoke in the six minutes that they’ve been here. Alex tells him about how he spent the summer his parents divorced with him up in the Rocky Mountains when nobody’s paying attention to them; Henry thinks that he’s a nice man, beneath the rough exterior.

They head back to their room to unpack and get settled. It’s a space that Henry finds to be a perfect picture of Alex’s youth; baby blue walls, beanbag chairs, a green lava lamp, and a set of bunk beds. He lets David off his leash to roam about, and he sits on the bottom bunk, starting to unpack their suitcases.

“So,” Alex asks, putting things in drawers as Henry hands them to him. “Opinions on Texas so far.”

He smirks. “Nothing too special.”

Alexander gasps, and Henry laughs.

“I’m _kidding_ ,” He soothes quickly. “I quite like it here. The air’s a bit like a steam bath, and everyone drives really fast— but I like it. It’s just— it’s got this _charm_ to it, I suppose.”

Alex beams. “I knew that you’d like it here. Was I a little nervous that you wouldn’t? Sure, but I knew deep down that you would.”

“I think I’d like being anywhere you are,” Henry says before he can take it back, face immediately reddening when he realizes what he’s just said.

He hears Alex chuckle, and tentatively looks up. 

“I think the same applies to me about you.”

Dinner is absolutely delightful; barbecue ribs, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob— he’s never eaten something so messy, or so good, before. There’s a small spat between Ellen and Oscar, but Leo is able to dissolve it in fairly quick fashion. Cocktails are passed around, and stories are told. A couple of them have Henry choking on vodka tonics and cranberry Prosecco.   
  


At end the end of the night, with a full stomach and a pleasant, he hauls himself into bed with Alex. He can’t quite remember when they first started sleeping in the same bed, but he does know that it first occurred after an especially horrific nightmare. It had been soothing, having Alexander there. His five hour nights had grown to nine, and Alex was far less whiny in the mornings. With both parties benefiting from the arrangement, they don’t see why they shouldn’t share a sleeping space with one another.

Alex is exceptionally warm tonight. Henry always notices that about him; his warmth, his brightness, his softness— the three major components that make up Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz. Henry’s been sure of his feelings since September, but he continues to hold out. This is technically the first time that he’s thought about his emotions pertaining to him in a way that isn’t fleeting or abstract. He knows that Alex is good for him, that he cares for him, that he would never hurt him. And yet, he resists. He hasn’t spoken to Cash about it, and he doesn’t think that he will, not when it comes to this. He’s playing it safe, watching from the sidelines. If there’s anything there that’s really worth pursuing, he’ll let Alex make the first move. His fear of misreading emotions has driven the infatuation-fueled courage away.

It feels _good_ , though. To hold him and be held by him. To feel him breathe, the softness of his chest rising and falling in a pattern that’s agonizingly easy to remember. He looks up at his face, trying not to get caught up in the curl of his eyelashes, the centers of his parted lips that have been reddened from constant biting. After Eric, he genuinely thought love could only end in pain and misery. Alex— _God_ , he doesn’t even know what to say. Alex lit up his mind like a Christmas tree; he’s like Henry’s personal panacea. He doesn’t have enough vigor or vocabulary to describe how this man makes him feel. He makes him laugh, makes him smile, reminds him that everything’s going to be okay, even when things are painful and tiring and unbelievably hard; Alex makes him feel alive and free. So incredibly, wholly free.

He sighs, burying his face back into his chest, tensing when he feels a hand rubbing over his back.

“Having trouble sleeping?” Alex croaks.

“Yes,” He replies, muffled.

“Roll onto your side.” Alex instructs, and Henry does as he’s told, humming when Alex slots himself in behind him. His brain is still burning with thoughts of ‘ _what if_ ’ and ‘ _when_ ’ and ‘ _why_ ’, but this helps to ease it a bit. There’s an arm slung around his waist, a hand in his hair. He can feel warm air ghosting against the nape of his neck.

“This feel better?”

Henry hums in response, relaxing into his touch and shutting his eyes. 

“Goodnight, Henry.” Alexander whispers. 

He needs to tell him, and he will.

Someday, but not today.

“Goodnight.”

The next morning, he is woken up at an absolutely absurd hour. It’s not that bad though, gentle urging and nudging until he comes to his senses and pulls himself up to rub at his eyes. 

“Mornin’,” Alex greets. Upon closer inspection, he’s got on a Hawaiian shirt with a turkey pattern. He’s also got his glasses on; it’s far too early to mess with contacts. “Ready to get to work?”

“ _Ugh_ ,” He replies, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“C’mon, Hen.” Alex tells him, charismatic and lively. “You’ll finally get to witness my expert cooking skills.”

“Or lack thereof.” He quips, drowsy.

“Don’t be cranky,” Alex soothes. “Today’s your first Thanksgiving; you might like it even more than Halloween.”

“The _only_ holiday I like more than Halloween is New Year’s, Diaz,” He tells him. “This is just a big meal and sports.”

“ _And_ a parade!” Alex reminds him in a hissed whisper, showing his excitement without being loud, tossing a jumper and a pair of jeans to Henry. “The parade’s almost always the best part.”

“You say _almost always_ ,” Henry points out as he stretches and changes into his outfit; his jumper’s got a wee black cat sitting next to a pumpkin on it, how precious. “Is there something that beats it out?”

“Sometimes I go drivin’ around when everyone falls asleep,” He explains. “I’ve had some of my best ideas out there.”

Henry hums. “Do you think you’ll be driving tonight?” He asks him.

Alex smiles. “Maybe. Do you want to come with me?”

“So long as you want me there,” He replies. “I don’t want to be burdensome towards you.” He continues. This whole messy fiasco of sorting through his feelings is absolutely agonizing. He wants to be as close to Alex as he physically can be at all times, but he doesn’t want him to feel suffocated; he should have as much space as he needs without worrying about Henry.

“Where’s all this coming from, hmm?” Alex asks, trying to fix unruly strands of blond hair with his fingers. “You can talk to me.”  
  


“I just don’t want to hover too much, is all.” He replies, trying to brush off the nagging negative feeling in the back of his mind. 

“Well,” Alex tells him, standing at a distance and clapping him on the shoulder. “I guess it’s a good thing that you hover just enough, then.”

Henry chuckles, and shoves his hand away, ignoring the feeling of jelly in his arms and legs.

After making breakfast for themselves and the rest of the family, they are absolutely entrenched in their work. The stuffing, the rolls, the candied yams, the green bean casserole— they're up to their ears in all of it. Between recipes, and Oscar coming in periodically to check on the turkey, they have a few drinks to pass the time and get through the process of cooking.

The Dallas Cowboys are playing today. Henry knows absolutely nothing about American Football, but he’s heard more than a few impassioned speeches from Alex, all of them holding one common theme; The Dallas Cowboys aren't the best because they’re good— they’re the best because they’re America’s team, whatever in the bloody hell that means. One would have figured that the Patriots are America’s team, considering the name.

Henry’s working on gathering the ingredients for the cheese-stuffed cornbread when it happens. Since his talk with Alex his morning, he’s been feeling quite antsy; the slightest noises have him gasping, dropping things, and violently jolting.

He’s just poured a cup of milk into the glass measuring jug, and is on his way to pour it into his wet ingredients mixture, which consists of cooking oil and an egg. Once he whisks it all together, he can add that to the dry ingredients, and then whisk that.

At that exact moment, the Cowboys score the game-winning touchdown, and the house erupts into a chorus of bellowing screams and excited expletives. He jumps clear out of his skin, and the measuring jug slips right out of his fingers, glass shattering and milk spilling across the floor. It’s then, right then, that he feels an overwhelming sense of danger wash over him. God, he can’t remember the last time he broke something; he’s always been so careful— so cautious, going out of his way to make sure things like this don’t happen. His head and heart are both racing as his anxiety spikes; he’s got to get this cleaned up. Immediately. He’s going to get punished if he doesn’t. He can’t imagine what will happen. A screaming match, more glass dishes lobbed at his head, being forced to get down on the ground and pick it up with his bare hands and scolded when he cuts himself— all of this has happened before. He can’t get a hold on himself; he’s shaking, and he can’t slow his breathing to save his life. His chest is hurting, his ears are ringing, his vision is spotty, he’s scared, he— he—

“Shh, shh, Henry,” Alex coos, and suddenly, Henry can feel his hands on his face, can feel thumbs swiping across his cheekbones. After trying to find the source of this choked, animalistic noise, he realizes that he’s that exact source. “It’s okay, Henry. You’re okay.”

“I’m so sorry,” He weeps, trembling in terror. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“

“Shh, honey,” Alex whispers. “Breathe for me. Big, deep breath. In for six seconds, okay?”

Henry nods his head, trying not to cough as he hiccups and gasps, clinging to Alexander as he inhales, counting to six in his head as Alex does out loud and holding it. They're counting again, this time to seven. Alex’s voice sounds as shaky as he feels. He feels so, so guilty.

“Okay,” Alex soothes, swallowing audibly. “Let it all out, sweetheart.”

As he exhales, they count to eleven, and they repeat the process three or four more times. Henry hates crying. He hates it with every fibre of his being. It feels heavy and shaky. He keeps holding his breath to make it stop, but it only makes his chest shudder with the force of his emotions. His tears pour out of his eyes blindingly hot and rest ice cold on his face. He gasps quite a bit, and if it weren’t for his violent crying, his face would be red due to his humiliation and shame. Whilst it is liberating, and provides emotional catharsis, it is tiring, and zaps every last bit of energy from both his soul and his person.

Alex sits him down and gets him a glass of water, before cleaning up the mess. Coming down from it all, and re-hydrating himself with the fluids provided, Henry realizes what a fool he’s been. He hasn’t endured anything like this since June; Alex would never get angry at him over dropping something on accident, and he certainly wouldn’t punish or yell at him for it. Guilt creeps through his blood like fresh frost. How does Alexander feel, after seeing how triggered he just was? He can’t conjure up the mental image.

“Aren't you tired of me yet?” He rasps, sniffling as he watches Alex toss the rest of the glass from the dustpan into the garbage bin. 

“What do you mean?” Alex replies, propping the broom up in the back corner of the kitchen.

“I—“ He takes a few more deep breaths to keep his tears from starting up again. “Every single time it seems like I’m finally normal— I’m finally fixed— some shite like this happens, and I lose it. It’s happened so many bloody times that I’ve stopped keeping track. I don’t see how you deal with it again and again.” He hears David pitter-patter into the kitchen, feels him press against his leg.

“Oh, Henry,” Alex hums, tending to the cornbread, finding a plastic measuring jug and getting another cup of milk from the fridge. “What just happened is completely normal. That was the first time that’s ever happened between the two of us, and all you did was react naturally; you _are_ normal,” He pauses, pouring the newly-whisked wet ingredients into the dry, and whisking that together. “You don’t need to be fixed, and nothing’s wrong with you. Nothing at all. You’re still healing. You wake up, and you get up everyday, and you heal. Some days are easier than others, and we both know that,” He pours the batter into a cast-iron skillet, and leaves it to bake in the oven. “And this was a little bump in the road. I know you, though. You’re strong, and you’re smart, and the single most wonderful person that I have ever met. You’ve been through so many difficult, terrifying things, and you still manage to be so damn kind that it hurts. I couldn’t ever get tired of you. Not even if I wanted to.”

Henry’s heart flutters, and his eyes water. The differences in five months of time, and between two separate men never cease to astound him. Eric was a torrential storm, a world of black and white. Alexander is the sun. Alexander is screaming color. 

“I don’t deserve you,” He murmurs, biting his bottom lip.

Alex hums, frowning, and takes Henry into his arms. Gentle and protective.

“You deserve the world and then some, Henry.” He whispers into his hair. “Everything good that’s comin’ your way— you deserve it all.”

He can’t bring himself to reply, burying his face into Alex’s shoulder and letting out a wet sob.

Alex lets him off cooking duties after that, has him write about what happened and read off recipes instead. He checks in on Henry every thirty minutes or so, asking him how he’s feeling, getting him a fresh glass of water, or having him taste a little bit of whatever he’s working on. 

“Does a nap after lunch sound good to you?” Alex proposes, pushing the umpteenth glass of water in his direction.   
  


“Yes,” Henry replies, his voice a harsh, graying thing. “That sounds lovely, actually.”

“I figured so,” Alex replies, leaning over the island, tenderly touching his fingers to the spaces under Henry’s eyes. He hadn’t realized until now that crying makes the eyes swell and ache so much. “You had a rough time getting to sleep last night. A good meal and a long rest will do some good.”

  
His head’s still swimming and pounding once they reach the aforementioned lunch, but Alex has given him some ibuprofen, and he can feel it start to kick in. They all eat and watch the re-run of this year’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. It’s nothing too special, but it gives them all something interesting to look at. He makes polite conversation with both Ellen and Oscar; he talks about work and home life, narrowly avoiding certain questions altogether. Raphael offers him a cigarette, which he politely declines. He lets Leo talk about his inventions, and actually finds himself to be quite engaged and amused. 

Alex tells him that he’s hit it off beautifully with the whole lot of them when they go back to lay down. He’s glad; he didn’t fully expect any of them to form an opinion on him, not one way, nor the other. He feels silly, being here in the first place, being invited to his roommate’s family’s holiday festivities. He imagines that he was only invited by Alexander to keep himself from getting lonely, and that only serves to bruise his ego.

When they lay down, Henry moves away from Alex when he tries to wrap his arms around him. He doesn’t know how to handle the shrieking cacophony of his thoughts, and having him so close just isn’t helping. He doesn’t want to fight this constant battle between adoring Alex and hating and fearing himself. Alex isn’t easily deterred though, massaging the upper plane of his back and dissolving the tension in his muscles. 

“You’ve been really stressed since we’ve got here,” He notes, and Henry resists the urge to laugh. That’s the understatement of the year, right there. “I don’t know what you’re going through, and I’m not going to ask, because if you wanted me to know, you would tell me. Just know that I’m here for you.” He continues, and Henry finds himself holding his breath again. He’s been quite the mess, constantly crying. “I’ll always be here for you, Henry.”

A shuddery inhale, a slow and even exhale. “Thank you. Have a good rest.” He croaks, trying to keep the whimpering out of his voice as best as he can.

Stark, screaming silence. Alex retracts his hand altogether. “Have a good rest.”

He can’t help but feel his heart sink as Alexander turns away from him, laying on his side. 

Henry believes that he has mastered the arts of loneliness and self-sabotage. 

But it’s keeping Alex at a safe distance, so it can’t be as bad as he’s making it out to be.

Later that night, Alex is waking him up yet again.

“What?” He asks blearily, wiping at his bleary eyes.

“You still down to go on that drive?” Alex responds, smoothing down his hair in a soothing gesture. 

“Only if you want me to,” He answers, not liking the tense look on Alex’s face.

“I do,” Alex insists. “And I think we’re gonna have a talk while we drive around, if you don’t mind.”

Henry sighs, cornered. “I suppose not.”

Everything’s quiet at first. There’s no reassuring hand on his knee, no idle conversation; Henry’s not even looking in his direction. 

“You’re not still upset about what happened earlier, are you?” Alexander asks him, voice cutting through the deafening quiet. “Because you’re not in trouble. Nobody’s mad at you.”

“I’m not,” Henry replies, pressure creeping through his body and into his chest. “I realize now that I was overreacting.”

“You weren’t ‘ _overreacting_ ’ if that was your first reaction,” Alex counters, voice even and neutral. “That was just you trying to process the situation.”

Henry is about to scream. He’s about to scream so _loud_ and so _hard_ that he may never speak again after doing so. How can he be so patient, time and time again? How can Alexander defend him so tirelessly, until his lungs give out and he’s blue in the face? So endlessly? He doesn’t understand it, not at all.

“I think I should move out,” He suggests, clenching his jaw. “When we get back to New York.”  
  


Alex sputters; this is clearly not what he was expecting. “ _Excuse me?_ ” He asks, and Henry can hear the painful disbelief there. “Look me in the eyes, and repeat yourself, please. I need to be sure that I understood what you just said.”

Henry whips around, tears stinging his eyes. “You heard what I said Alex. Please, don’t make me say it again.”

“Why do you want to move out?” He questions, and Henry can see the upset expression plastered to his face. “What’s going on? Please, tell me.”

Henry shakes his head, burying his face in his hands. He needs to do this, needs to put this distance between the two of them. Needs to keep Alex away from him. Needs to keep Alex safe. But it hurts. So deeply, and so, so horribly. 

“You need to tell me why so that we can work through this together, Henry.” Alex continues, slowly unraveling. He’s losing his cool, but not in the way Henry had expected. He’s not getting angry; he is blatantly devastated. “I mean, what am I not seeing? Have you found another place? Are you moving back in with your parents?” There’s a pause, and Henry knows exactly what he’s going to say.

“Don’t—“

“—is it because of me, Henry?” Alex asks, voice wobbling as he speaks, and God, that really gets Henry’s tears going. “Am I doing something that’s hurting you? Am I too much? Because I promise, I’m not meaning to—“

“ _God, can you just be quiet?_ ” Henry shouts over him, his voice and sobs easily overpowering him. “Are you really that naive and that oblivious that you can’t see I’m doing this for _you?_ ” He replies, pins and needles making his skin burn. “You have to deal with me day in and day out, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I’m a fucking liability, and I am _weighing_ you down.” He gets out, choked. “You deserve someone better than me in your life, someone normal, someone who can have a bloody conversation without freaking out—“

“Please,” Alex begs. “Stop talking about yourself like that. You are normal. You are smart, and kind, and funny, and the most amazing person that I have ever met.”

“I don’t need you to sit here and _patronize_ me,” Henry spits.

“If I was patronizing you Henry, you would know it,” Alex replies, voice cutting a little deeper than usual. “Where is all of this coming from, Henry? Like, I—“ He stutters, sighing shakily. He’s got tears rolling down his face. “I just don’t see why you want to leave. I really don’t want you to leave, either.”

“You really think I _want_ to leave?” Henry says, feeling as if he’s been fatally wounded. “Alex, you think this is something that I actually _want_ to do?”

“Well, you have to want it, otherwise you wouldn’t have suggested it—“

“I said it because I’m trying to _protect_ you!”

“From what—“

“ _From me!_ ”

Someone makes a strangled noise, but it’s not clear as to which one of them actually did it. Henry’s ears are ringing, and everything is spinning, and nothing feels right. 

“Why would I need to be protected from you?” Alex asks. He sounds rough, and Henry feels awful for doing this to him, feels downright disgusting and evil. 

“Because,” Henry gasps. “You’re just too _good_ for me.” He explains, realizing how senseless and tragic that sounds. “You’re a good man with a wonderful family. You’re resilient, and patient, and so fucking kind that it hurts,” He rambles, listing off every last thing that springs to his head. “You’re perfect, too perfect for me to be around, for my hands to hold. I care about you so deeply, Alex, and I don’t want to hurt you because of it.”

Alexander pulls over and parks the car. “Henry, I am as far from perfect as a person can get,” He says, swallowing and leaning back against his seat. “I’m going to tell you something that I’ve never told anyone else before, okay? I don’t feel pressured to do this— I’ve been meaning to for a while. I just feel that, with the circumstances provided, I ought to tell you now.”

“Sure,” Henry sniffs, his breathing fluttery. “Go ahead.”

“If you would have met me about, I don’t know, a year before you came to my classroom, you wouldn’t have said a single thing that you just said about me.”

“Why’s that?” He asks. He’s not sure where this is going, but he’s already feeling weary.

“I’m an addict,” Alex admits, putting it simply. “Alcohol was never really my thing. I, uhm, I was extremely addicted to Adderall and ecstasy. I’ve done just about everything, though. If you can name it, I’ve eaten it, snorted it, or injected it. I’ve got scars all over my arms from all the times I’ve done heroin.” He trails off, trying to gather his thoughts.  
  


“Oh, Alex.” Henry sighs. He wants to reach out and comfort him, but it feels inappropriate, given the circumstances and everything that they’ve been through.  
  


“My family had no idea, but all of my friends were begging me to stop. I didn’t care, and I told them that. I didn’t care about them, and I didn’t care about myself. I cared about getting through my week days with Adderall, and my nights with molly. Weekends were free game, whatever I could find or buy. I’d been addicted since my sophomore year of college; that’s four years of my life that I’ll never get back.” He says, and there’s a bitter, disappointed tone to his voice. “Anyways, I came home to Texas from New York last summer. I’d been laid off from my last teaching job, and it had really gotten to me. I was high the whole summer, and it was miserable. I don’t remember sleeping, like, at all. One night, Mom had called me over and over again to come down from my room for dinner. She was tired of asking for me, so she sent June up to get me. And well,“ Alex sighs.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Henry assures him. “I’m sure I can come to an adequate conclusion.”

“Thank you,” Alex replies, clearing his throat. “I, uhm, I didn’t wake up for a few days.” He tells Henry. “And I immediately went to rehab. They got me clean, and I did a lot of work on myself. I never have more than one or two drinks in public, and all of my medication is liquid. I’m on a Ritalin patch for my ADHD. I got my current job because the first teacher quit, and they needed someone to fill the position. I’m patient with others because I realize what it’s like to need my family’s patience. I’m kind, because I needed that kindness in my life. I’m not perfect, I’m just trying to be the person I know I needed.”

Henry’s quiet for a few beats. “I know what you’re going through, to an extent. Beatrice had problems with cocaine and alcohol when she was in high school. She's clean now, but I know that what you’ve gone through, it’s—“ He stumbles over his words. “It’s no joke.”  
  


“It really isn’t,” Alex replies. “Listen, I didn’t tell you that story for pity, or to make you feel guilty, or anything like that. I told you all of that because I know what it feels like to hurt, and to want to push people away when things get heavy. I know what it’s like to feel messed up when everyone else seems to have their lives together. But I’m tellin’ you, Henry. I am here for you.”

“I’m here for you too, you know.” Henry tells him, and Alex chuckles, his voice sounding watery.

“I know you are, silly thing.” He replies. “You’re just sensitive. You struggle with your emotions a lot. So do I. It’s all part of getting better.”  
  


“It’s the hardest part.”

“I know, but you can do it. I know you can.”

Henry sighs, putting his head on Alexander’s shoulder.

“Still tryin’ to leave me?” Alex asks.

Henry chuckles exhaustedly, shaking his head. “No, I’m not. I’m sorry about that, I really am. I’ve just been trying to work through my emotions for a while now, and it all really built up today.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Alex replies. “I already knew.”

Alex gets back out onto the main road, and starts driving.

“I don’t cherish you despite your flaws,” Henry tells him idly, looking out the window. Now that they’ve both calmed down, he feels closer to him than ever. He supposes that emotional vulnerability can make the heart fonder; feelings are strange like that. “I cherish you because of them, too.”

Alex snorts, ruffling Henry’s hair. “You’re all sappy.” He accuses, but Henry can hear the way his breathing shakes. 

“I mean it, though.” He insists, burying his face in the crook of his neck. “Every bit of it.”

“I know you do,” Alex replies, something unknown and magical tinging the fondness in his voice.

Henry smiles into his shoulder as he rounds the next turn.

“I know you know.”


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idk how to describe this chapter other than:  
> \- flashbacks of the majority of December   
> \- cute moments  
> \- a special New Years surprise 👀 
> 
> It’s a bit of a mess, but I hope y’all will like it

Henry can safely say that he and Alex were closer than ever as late November bled into early December. That conversation in the car back on Thanksgiving night really helped in dissolving the tension between them. They’ve since resumed their normal schedule of work weeks that can’t end fast enough and longing for the weekends, for those two glorious, bliss-filled days where they can merely exist together without lingering lethargy.   
  


Washington Heights is so much more beautiful in the wintertime than he could have ever imagined. Everything is covered in a thick, dense blanket of snow, brilliantly sparkling. He remembers Alex waddling into the living room, drowning in his puffy coat and snow boots, handing Henry an icicle with a mittened hand.

“What am I to do with this?” He’d asked, hissing as ice water dropped down his arm.

“Eat it,” Alex replied, taking a bite off the end of his own.

“ _Eat it?_ ” He echoed, eyeing him with a look of skepticism. 

“Yeah, ain’t you ever done that before?” Alex teased, taking another bite of his icicle and crunching rather loudly.

“Can’t say I have, no.”

“Well, you'd better hurry, it’s gonna melt in your hand.”

Henry decided then and there that he didn’t have anything to lose, and took a bite of his icicle, chewing slowly. It wasn’t the most underwhelming experience, but at the end of the day, it’s only ice, and the right sleeve of his jumper is soggy. 

“Where did you even _get_ these?” He’d questioned, taking another bite.

“I took _mine_ off a tree,” Alex told him, grinning mischievously. “I took _yours_ off the windowsill.”

Henry had gasped, immediately spitting a mouthful of ice out onto the area rug.

“ _Alex, that’s gutter water!_ ” He’d exclaimed, disgusted.

“I know,” He chortled, snorting when Henry made a swipe at his stomach. “I did it just to see the look on your face.”

“You are,” He’d started, trying not to smile at Alexander’s goofy, ugly laughter. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

“Oh hush, you love me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He huffed, rolling his eyes as his cheeks went red. “Whatever makes you feel good.”

“Such denial, how devastating.”

“Shut up, you muppet.”

Alex blew him a kiss, and promptly left the room to take off a few layers of winter clothing; Henry found himself screaming into a pillow soon after the fact.

December’s been filled with little moments like that. Going skating at Rockefeller Center whilst Alex clung to him, terrified of falling and getting scrapes from the rough ice. Visiting the preschool to bring Alex his lunch and help with activities. Sipping on alcoholic eggnog and playing Christmas music whilst trimming the tree; they’ve chosen subtle, rustic ornaments, really giving the pre-installed lights a chance to stand out. They had to keep the ornaments off the very bottom layer of the tree, though— they learned that the hard way after David broke two glass baubles. 

They’ve also done a few things from the jar this month. They’ve tried their hands at properly baking; it was messy, and a few things were burnt in the process, but it ultimately turned out to be quite the success. They also went out to a used bookstore; it was the first time in years that he was allowed to choose his own novels without anyone else’s approval or say in the matter. He remembers finding messages on slips of paper from Alexander tucked into the pages; he’d placed them there when Henry had deposited the pile of books on the bed to take a shower. They were little things— a drawing of an animal, one of those puns that are so bad you can’t help but laugh, and a note stating how proud of Alex has been of him and how much he’s grown. He can’t help but think about how wonderful things are as Alex rests his head on his stomach as he reads, and Henry cards through his hair, pushing strands out of his eyes. So domestic, so comfortable— so _natural_.  
  


One thing from the jar happens to be Henry’s latest obsession; getting tattoos. He never expected to like it so much— in fact, he was incredibly nervous about getting something permanently inked on his body, of committing to something so completely un-erasable. Alexander let him hold out on it for a little while; he understood that Henry wanted his tattoos to be planned out, to have a dash of meaning. He’d say on the couch, and he drew for hours on end, wrote in stylized fonts, tried to get something together that he wanted before Alex dragged him out of the apartment and to the closest tattoo parlor.  
  


Against Alexander’s guidance, he got five tattoos in one sitting. 

The first— and the one that took the longest to get done— was his back piece. Twisting and coiling down his spine is a black viper entangled in red and golden poppy flowers. That was definitely the one he put the most thought into. He felt that it was symbolic of his growth, of peace holding back and overthrowing even the most potent venom. The second was a detailed tattoo of a moth, wrapping from just beneath his collarbone to the beginning of his shoulder. He wishes that he could wax poetic about this one, give it a meaning just as wonderful and deep as the first one, but in reality, he just got it because he’d seen other moth tattoos and thought it would be pretty. A quote from _Wild Geese_ by Mary Oliver is the third one he’d gotten, printed across his thigh. It reads, _‘You do not have to be good.’_ Alex has told him that one is his favorite. A green carnation rests on his right hip; an homage to the late, brilliant Oscar Wilde. Finally, and funnily, he’s got ‘ _excellent boiled potatoes_ ’ tattooed under one of his ribs; a line from the 2005 _Pride & Prejudice_ film with Keira Knightley. Alex keeps asking him what it means. He giggles and shrugs every single time.

Alex didn’t go home empty-handed that day, either. All over his arms, in beautiful, vibrant colors, are little drawings from his students. Some are adorable, some are nonsensical, but every last one of them are beautiful. When they were sitting in the car, Alex made a comment about his arms finally feeling like they belong to _him_ again, and God, Henry had to use all of his willpower not to cry. 

He felt sore, and sunburnt for almost a week after the fact. Alex was there, though, rubbing aftercare lotion on his back and affectionately saying ‘ _I told you so_ ’ when Henry would whine in discomfort. He was there to do the exact same for Alex, rubbing thin layers of lotion over his arms, feeling the subtle dents from scars and the swell of skin from the new ink there. It had taken a bit longer than it probably should have, but he wanted to be sure that he’d got everything covered thoroughly.

The final little surprise that happened this month happened much earlier— around the thirteenth or the fourteenth. Henry hasn’t mentioned it yet purely because he thinks he’s still in denial that it _actually_ happened. He’d gone out earlier that day to pick up some groceries; Alex can’t be trusted to do so, he forgets to buy half the things on the list and brings stuff home that they’ll never be able to plan meals with. He’d gotten the bags inside, and shut the door behind himself, and started sneezing almost immediately. With the first two, he didn’t particularly mind it, but once he was rounding on eight sneezes and a scratchy throat, he’d begun to get just a _wee_ bit annoyed. 

After taking an allergy pill, he’d made his way through the apartment. Alex was nowhere to be found. At first, he’d considered the possibility that he’d taken David on a walk, but quickly ruled this out when he saw said dog laying in the middle of the bed, curled up in a little ball and snoring away. He realized that he could hear water running in the adjacent master bathroom, a soft shushing sound, and choked animal noises. He’d moved closer to the door in order to hear better, though the sounds of the water and shushing over overpower that strange third noise. He had opened the door, only to see Alex hunched over the bathtub.

“What are you doing?” He asked, leaning against the doorway. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Sorry,” Alex had replied, looking over his shoulder and giving Henry a grin that made his heart go all gooey. “C’mere.”

He’d stepped closer per his roommate’s request, placing a hand on the name of his neck, fingers ghosting against the skin there. He peered down into the bathtub, and saw the last thing he wanted or expected to see. A little kitten with a black nose and wide, green eyes. There were bald patches amongst fuzzy, grey hair, which seemed to be anything but soft, upon first glance. It head-butted Alexander’s hand, and let out a scratchy, pitiful meow. Alex seemed to be entirely taken with the poor thing. Henry, however, was less than amused.

“You’re giving a stray a bath in our tub,” He’d noted, not knowing what Alex has wanted him to say. “That explains why I’ve been sneezing so much.”

“Don’t you think she’s just the cutest little thing?” Alex had asked in response, cooing at the kitten. He had reached over to grab a towel and shut off the water, wrapped her up in his arms and rubbed the towel over head and face, trying to dry her off as best as he could.

“I think she looks pretty rough,” He replied, sneezing. “Where’d you even find her?”  
  


“David found her under a shrub when we were out on our walk today,” Alex explains. “She was shaking and crying, covered in dirt with her fur all matted and dirty, so I brought her back here.”  
  


“What’s wrong with her fur?” He found himself asking, watching as the kitten hopped out of Alex’s arms, shaking to realign everything after being dried off. This did absolutely nothing in terms of helping his allergies, and left him sneezing once again. “She’s nearly bald in some spots.”  
  


“I didn’t know, so I sent a picture of her to David’s vet. Apparently, one her her parents is domestic, and the other is feral. She’s a little mutant baby.”

Said cat started rubbing up against Henry’s leg and purring at that moment, trying to get him to pet her. He made his indifference clear, turning to Alexander. “She can’t stay here.”  
  


Alex’s face immediately dropped. “Why not?”

“I’m allergic, and she's going to get hair everywhere,” He had explained, as if this were the most simple notion in the entire universe. “She can’t stay here.”

Alex groaned. “You take allergy medication! C’mon, Henry, are you _really_ gonna make her go back out into the cold? When she _barely_ has any hair on her body to keep warm?”

“Alexander, my throat will _close_ , and I will get _hives_ ,” He reminded him, looking him in the eyes. He doesn’t do this often, but in that moment, he’d put his foot down. There was no room— or need— for a cat in the home. “She cannot stay in the apartment.”

Alex has turned away from Henry then, closed his eyes, and tilted his chin up towards the sky. 

“That is the _most_ childish thing you’ve ever done,” He pointed out. “And you’ve done a great many childish things before.”

Alex huffed in response, and crossed his arms over his chest in defiance. The kitten was still rubbing up his leg at this point, her purring increasing in volume. It’s then that Henry actually had to take things into consideration. Alex has a bit of a problem with letting things go; if he were to cast this poor thing from their home, Alex would be moping around the place for _days_ after the fact. It also just seemed like a bit of a douche move— there’s a tragic lack of fur on her tiny body; he’d feel quite horrible if she actually froze out there.

He groaned, loudly, and reached down to pet the kitten. “ _Fine_ , she can stay, but if I end up in the hospital with all my airways swollen shut, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  
  


Alex smiled, laying his head on Henry’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite the brat, you know.” He sighed, reaching back and patting Alex on the cheek.

Alex had giggled, squirming away from his touch and tucking his face into Henry’s neck, hiding from his half-serious glare. “I know.”

Keeping with their trend of naming cats after singers, Alexander had decided on the name Gloria, after Gloria Estefan. Despite his initial icy disposition and indifference towards their newest edition, Henry found himself spending the most time with Gloria, as he’s the only one that’s home all seven days a week. She gets along fairly well with David, and Alex spoils her whenever he can. Henry was honestly just relieved to finally see her grow and gain some weight; she was such a tiny, scrawny thing at first— he’d been worried about her health, and the possibility of malnourishment. She’s adjusted beautifully though, and fits in perfectly with the chaos of their home.

For the past few days, though, they’ve left Gloria at home with David, and Pez has been staying at their house to pet-sit. They didn’t think that it would be a very good idea to bring a cat with them to Montauk Beach, and they didn’t want her to grow lonely at home. 

They’ve been staying at the Fox family home here with Beatrice since the twenty-eighth. It used to be customary to spend their Christmases here, but given the circumstances of what happened last time the whole family came down for a holiday, the tradition has since been dissolved.

Henry felt like he _needed_ to do this, though. In order to come full circle and truly be at peace with himself. He’s always loved coming to the beach, with the soft sand and hot sun and roaring tides— it’s been almost seven years since he’s stepped foot on one, though. Seven years sounds like such a long time, and it is, really. Seven years is sixty-one thousand three-hundred and twenty hours, almost four million minutes. The better part of a decade, and nearly a tenth of a century. In the time that he was with that monster of a man, all of the cells in his body had died and regenerated. Physically and mentally, the boy that Eric first met is dead. With mourning his past self, and his failed relationship, he has definitely gone through the stages of grief, and now, he thinks that he’s finally reached acceptance.  


He still hurts at times, but it’s less of a stab and more of an ache. 

It’s currently eleven fifty-four PM on New Year’s Eve, and he’s sitting next to Alex on an old beach towel, their fingers interlocked as they look up at the sky. Alex is wet, and freezing cold; he thought it would be a _brilliant_ idea to take a dip in the icy water, for whatever silly reason was running through his head at the time.  
  


Oh, Alex. His personal ray of sunshine. His safe haven. His grace. His Achilles heel. The man who took him apart, and had the patience and gentle hands to help put him back together again. The only person he trusted in his dark and lonely hours. He’s seen Henry cry and wail and scream more than anyone else ever has. Spontaneous and compassionate, strong and soft. Perfectly imperfect. Flawed and free. Empathetic. Dramatic. Loving. Human.   
  


Henry finds himself wondering how he didn’t fall for him sooner. 

He thinks they’ve been together the whole time without either of them truly realizing it. Between holding hands, Alexander’s constant pet names, sleeping in the same bed, and never leaving one another’s side, things seem to have happened quite naturally. They haven’t acknowledged it, because they never needed to. It’s always just been them. Alex and Henry. 

“People further down the beach are setting up fireworks,” Alex notes, gesturing over to the opposite end of the beach, where a group of people are shouting and waving their flashlights about. 

Henry hums. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen fireworks.” He tells him. “Too many complaints when I lived uptown, and my family doesn’t celebrate Fourth Of July.”  
  


Alex beams, smile shining bright, even in the darkness. Looking at it used to bring him pain— it brings him comfort, now. “Well, then tonight’s gonna be real special.”

“I mean,” Henry starts, heart fluttering as he lays his head on Alex’s shoulder. “It already is.”

“That’s true— first time at a beach in seven years, and the night we finish the list.” Alex says. “Those are both really big accomplishments.”

Henry chuckles. “That’s not what I meant, numpty.” 

“What did you mean, then?”

“Tonight is special because you’re here with me,” He says, and the way that Alex’s face softens makes him melt. God, what a weak man he is. “Which is sappy, but it’s true.”

“I’m with you every night.” Alex counters, leaning back on the hand that’s not occupied with holding Henry’s.

“And every night is just as special as the night that came before it.” Henry affirms, looking for the outline of Orion’s constellation in the vast, black shroud of night draped above them, glittering with sequin stars.

“You’re really somethin’, you know that, Fox?” Alex tells him. When he looks back, Alexander’s head is lifted to the sky, just as his had been, and there’s something distinctly ethereal about the way his skin glows in the silver moonlight. 

“Oh?” He breathes, smiling. “Do enlighten me.”

“You just,” Alex sighs, trying to make sense of the words in his mind before verbalizing them. “You say the damndest things sometimes. The sweetest, most beautiful things that I’ve ever heard, and you act like they’re things that any old person would say. You’re just—” He sighs again, and Henry can practically hear the gears turning up there. He’s being very careful with his wording, almost as if he’s afraid of misspeaking. “You’re the most sensitive, intelligent, artistic soul that I have ever met. I’m kind of word-vomiting right now, but you get the gist of it,” He rambles, chuckling nervously. 

Henry’s blushing so damn hard that it feels like he’s burning alive. He looks down at his phone to check the time. Eleven fifty-eight. He can hear someone setting off bottle rockets, can hear the fizzle of sparklers and genuine, ugly laughter. He looks back to Alexander, humming.  
  


“Quite interesting, that you chose to tell me this _now_ , of all times,” He points out, raising an amused brow.

Alex snorts. He feels warmer than he usually does. “Shut up.”

“I suppose it’s my turn to talk, then.” He volunteers, a small jolt of energy making its way through him. “I’ve never met someone who holds so much kindness inside them. I don’t just mean politeness, or respect. I’ve lived with you since July, and I’ve only ever heard you talk about people with reverence, and love. You told me a month ago, in your ugly arse, beat-up Prius—“

“ _Hey_ ,” Alex warns, chuckling. “Don’t hate on the Prius.”

“It’s a _shite_ car. Aside from that, when we were out driving around on the night of Thanksgiving, you told me that you’re so kind because you needed that sort of kindness back when you were hurting most. I can safely say that you’re perhaps the most thoughtful, gracious, understanding person that I have ever met, and probably ever will meet.” He tells him, trying his best not to stumble over his words.

“Henry,” Alex whispers, almost as if he’s afraid to get any louder.

“I just— when I met you, I was in a terrible place. You know that about me. I, uhm, I was horrified. All the time. Every minute was one that brought me closer to the month of June, to that awful, awful day, and I knew what was going to happen to me if I couldn’t find a way out. I’d still be there, if it weren’t you. You gave me the strength to say no. To _run_. To get out of bed and leave my parents house after a solid month of crying and mourning the loss of someone who didn’t care whether or not I was happy or sad, or lived or died. You taught me how to make decisions and take risks and be confident— hell, you’ve even got me writing again.” He laughs, wet and huffy as he tries not to get too emotional. “My point is that I like the person I am when I’m with you. I like being with you, too. Being near you. I don’t think I could ever be away from you, even if I wanted to.”  
  


The quiet that fills the space the two of them is almost too much to bear. 

_Ten_.

He turns his head to face Alex, who's got wet eyes and red in his cheeks.

_Nine_.

He can feel his own heart going haywire in his chest, fast as a jackhammer and loud as a steel drum.

_Eight_. 

There’s a mess of smells all invading the oxygen he’s breathing in at one time ; sea salt, Alexander’s leave-in conditioner, his cologne, and something else that just smells like home.

_Seven_.

A firework goes off prematurely, and they both jump, laughing. Henry can feel his pulse dip, then immediately rise back up.

_Six_.

Alex touches their foreheads together, and closes his eyes, letting home a long, slow exhale.

_Five_.

He pulls away, looks Henry in the eyes, and says, “I want to do something kinda stupid right now, if that’s alright with you.”

_Four_. 

Henry’s hands are shaking, but he’s not afraid. He is more excited in this moment than he has been in his whole entire life.

_Three_.

“Go ahead and do it, then.” He quips in response, and he finds himself moving closer, completely closing the gap between them.

_Two_.

Alex cups his face. Henry closes his eyes.

_One_.

They lean in, and welcome in the new year with a kiss. It’s soft, and it’s gentle, and Henry’s wondering why they haven’t been doing this the entire bloody time. 

Alexander pulls a way for a moment, catching his breath, and Henry coaxes him back in once he’s done so in a sufficient manner. Kissing him comes naturally, like this is the millionth instead of the first time. One hand finds Alex’s curls, the other finds his shoulder, and he holds onto him like he might drown in him, like Alex is the only thing keeping him tethered to this wretched world. 

He pulls away when he’s satisfied, taking in fresh air, his forehead knocking clumsily against Alex’s. They laugh, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt more alive. 

“That was,” He starts in a low murmur, pushing a stray curl away from Alex’s face. “The best idea you have ever had.”

“So I’m guessing you liked it, then?” Alex asks sarcastically, the fiendish grin on his face saying it all.

“Do shut up,” Henry tells him, but his bubbly tone counteracts the harshness of his words as he connects their mouths once more.   
  


_A happy new year indeed_ , he thinks, laughing into Alex’s mouth. 

Oblivious to the noise and bursts of colorful light around them, they stay like that for quite some time, blissfully unaware in their own little world.

Together.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This has been such an informational, moving project, so I figured we might as well go out with a bang (lmaoo)
> 
> This chapter is like 2/3 smut but the first third is cute lol
> 
> Thank y’all so much for reading, and happy holidays 💕

Henry takes a moment to reflect on the past year of his life as he sits beside on the pier of the Claremont-Diaz family lake house, feeling as a humid breeze overtakes the sweltering three AM air.

The middle of June; this exact day, last year, he ran out of a church, away from his ex-fiancé, and into a world of horrifying unknowns. He’s grieved, he’s cried, and he’s yearned to take it all back. Adversely, he’s learned. He’s laughed. He’s done things that he never dreamed that he’d be able to do, after being trapped for six years in a toxic, one-sided, emotionally abusive relationship. He’s loved, and he’s broken free of the demons and fears that used to hold him back. 

And he owes it all to Alex.

Alex, with his beautiful brown skin, curls, and eyes. With his blinding smile, and his chin dimple, and his squishy stomach, _and_ a heart that is so tender and so big that Henry has to shove all the love it gives him into storage bins and boxes. Alex, with his patience, and humor, and kindness. With his bratty attitude and dramatic way of talking about things he’s passionate about. With his stretch marks and sparse eyebrows and arms dented with small, circular scars. Beautiful. Perfectly flawed. Completely and utterly Henry’s. 

They’ve had their ups; Alex has received a pay raise, Henry’s released his novel on healing after leaving an abusive relationship, and they’re looking into what the future means for them— adoption of children, a possible marriage, and so on and so forth. They’ve also had their downs; there are days where Henry can’t pull himself out of bed, and there have been days where Alexander has admitted to Henry that he’s been having thoughts about ending his sobriety streak. They’ve gotten through all of it together, though, with plenty of deep breaths and taking everything five seconds at a time.  


Washington Heights has never looked better, and the apartment is crowded as ever. As much as they love their home, they think they’ve outgrown it. Between them, David, Gloria, and the very real possibility of foster children shuffling in and out of their lives, it’s time for something bigger than a two bedroom, one bathroom apartment. Henry’s been thinking of what he can do to commemorate their time spent there. He and Alex have been talking about getting the apartment’s coordinates tattooed somewhere on their arms.  
  


They’ve spent so much time in Flushing— a ridiculous amount of time, really. Friday night family dinners with everyone in attendance, including Philip, his wife Martha, and their two-year old daughter, Holly. The wee babe always wants Alex to hold her; Henry’s got a photo of them as his lock screen. He’ll sit at the piano and play, and Alex will sit next to him with her in his arms, chuckling as she plucks out notes, occasionally whisper-singing the words to her if the song is familiar to him. Pez comes over sometimes, and when he does, it’s a real show. Well, less of a show and more of a watch-party-slash-comedy-night. He never expected his father to be a fan of _Drag Race_ ; he didn’t expect it out of Philip either, if he’s being frank.   
  


Henry thinks that Alex has won over his parents completely. Nobody’s ever made his mother laugh so _hard_ and _loud—_ not even Pez, whom she deeply adores. He seems to perfectly capture Catherine’s sense of humor. The conversations he holds with his father are truly riveting; it’s always interesting when the most dramatic men he’s ever met group off to have a chat together.

He remembers his father sitting him down one day whilst Alex was helping his mother in the kitchen.  
  


“There’s something different about that one,” Arthur had noted, taking a sip from the can of lemon-like soda that Bea had brought him earlier that evening. “Distinctly different. I think he’s truly yours, Hazza.”

“Well, one can only hope so,” He'd chuckled, trying to worm his way out of an emotion-provoking conversation. 

“Oh, _shut_ it,” Bea had told him, pressing a peck to his cheek, leaving behind a smear of navy blue lipstick. “You’re head over heels for that boy, there’s no need to deny it.”

He’d hummed then, grinning evilly. “Just like how there wasn’t any need for you and Pip to storm Eric’s office after he got my new cellphone number from someone working at the publishing house?”

“There was _definitely_ a need for that.” Philip piped up as he walked through the front door, shutting it behind himself. “Sorry I’m late— traffic was brutal on the way over.”

“I was ready to beat his arse,” Bea replied. “And I would’ve if his damned receptionist hadn’t called the police.”

“You’re both _lucky_ he didn’t press charges.” Arthur told them, gesturing for Philip to take a seat.

“ _He’s_ lucky the only thing I served him was a restraining order,” Henry had muttered, taking a sip of his own drink. “I could’ve sued him, taken his money, and the apartment, with all the evidence I’ve got stowed away in filing cabinets and bank boxes.”

“You hated that apartment,” Philip noted. Philip— is quite the enigma to Henry. He’s completely changed; he’s gone from not supporting Henry, his sexuality, or his relationships, to threatening his ex-fiancé for daring to contact him after nearly a year of being separated. He loves the growth now, even though he never really realized it had happened in the first place. “You wouldn’t take it.”  
  


“He would take it.” Bea argued, grinning wildly. “One hundred percent certain he would.”

“He would have part of it converted to a library for himself, put in a studio for you,” Arthur started, gesturing to Henry first, then Beatrice. “And he’d probably put in a couple of nooks and crannies for the rest of us to sleep in.”  
  


“I’d leave everything the same, actually,” He’d told them, setting his can of soda on a coaster. “And convert one of the bedrooms to a nursery or children’s bedroom.”

Arthur’s eyes had twinkled at that. “Already thinking of children?”

“Well, he works in childcare, and I’m an author primarily focusing in children’s literature,” He’d reminded his father, laughing. “It was bound to happen at some point.”

“So, you’re adopting?” Bea had asked.   
  


He remembers shaking his head at that. “Just fostering for now. Working on finalizing paperwork to get our licenses. If a child we’re fostering asks us to adopt them sometime down the line, we obviously wouldn’t object to the idea, but so many children in the foster system are so incredibly disenfranchised. We want to give children firm ground to stand on, for no matter how long they're with us.”  
  


“That's wonderful, Henry.” Philip told him, and in that moment, as Alex called them all into the kitchen to make their plates, it had been hard to fight back his smile— and his pride.

He’s not sure what inspired them to come out here for the summer, but he’s certainly glad that they did so. Ellen and Leo aren’t here this time, but June and Nora have filled their vacancies; they plan to spend some time in Austin with the former pairing in a few weeks.

Alex starts complaining about getting eaten up by mosquitoes, but Henry knows better; he watched him spray half a can of repellent on himself earlier this afternoon. He doesn’t argue, though. He’s learned time and time again that the best moments can come from just going along with whatever Alex has planned out for them. Of course, he already knows what they’ll be doing when they get back inside, but that won’t stop him from feigning ignorance. 

He’s pulled to his feet, and is only given ‘ _race you back’_ as a head’s up. So, off they go, their shoes in their hands as the sprint across the wooden pier and dewy grass. Alex wins, of course— years of 5K runs and twice-yearly marathons gave him the upper hand on this one.

“Took you long enough.” Alex teases, setting his hands on Henry’s hips.

“I literally got here,” He pauses, tilting his head down to plant a kiss on Alex’s lips. “Right after you did.”

“Still took too long.” Alex insists, reaching behind him for the doorknob, fiddling with it for a moment or so before actually opening the front door, stepping back and guiding Henry inside with him. 

“Are you ever satisfied?” He asks in response, shutting the door slowly and silently, aware that Raf is sleeping on the couch a few feet away, not wanting to wake him up.

Alex giggles. “Nope,” He mumbles, tugging him closer, impatient. “Are you always _this slow?_ ”

“Not always,” Henry tells him, smiling. He leans in close, whispering against his ear. “Just when I know it’ll get on your nerves.”

Alex makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, and he tries not to laugh when he nearly gets his arm yanked off. Alexander has decided that in order to get what he wants, being bossy is required, and well, that just won’t do.

As soon as the bedroom door falls shut behind them, Henry finds himself being pinned to it.

“Color?” Alex asks, almost immediately.

“Green,” Henry responds, easy and amiable. It’s amazing, how far he’s come in this specific aspect of his life. He remembers when there was no connection between himself and his partner. When he would just lay there, and stare at the ceiling until all was said and done. When everything used to hurt, be uncomfortable, and feel so incredibly awkward. Once again, Alex has shown him that the way he did things before— that’s not how they’re supposed to be. They use safe words, negotiate what is and isn’t okay, and make sure that the stimulation and pleasure is mutual. “You’re awfully impatient tonight.” He notes, laughing breathlessly as Alex covers his neck in open-mouthed kisses whilst grasping at the end of his tee shirt.

Alexander separates from him, and looks him in the eyes. Henry nods, and the shirt is pulled over his head and unceremoniously dropped to the floor. He does the same with his own shirt, before walking Henry back into the bed, pushing him back with little to no force, and straddling his hips. “You say that like I can _help_ it,” He argues, playful and breathless, the feather-light touch of his fingertips skimming along Henry’s chest and torso. “I mean, how could I not want you when you look like _this?”_

Henry buries his face in a pillow after making quite the embarrassing noise. 

“I’d like to see you, please.” Alex tells him, and he groans, going to greater lengths to keep his face hidden. “You’re too old to be so shy.” He teases.

“I’m not _old,”_ Henry says, turning back to face him. God, he looks so precious right now, so gentle and tender. “I’m only twenty-six.”

“Old _enough_ ,” Alex responds, and Henry rolls his eyes. “You look beautiful like this.” 

“Thank you,” Henry replies. “I think you look quite gorgeous yourself.” His hands on Alexander are fleeting; cupping his face, feeling along his chest, kneading at his arse, and pulling down his shorts and pants.

Alex does the same to him, stripping him of all remaining garments, and for a minute or so, they do nothing more than take each other in. It feels like their first time together, when they couldn’t get over their nervous giggles, nothing but clumsy hands and bumping noses. Such tends to be the case when they want to take things slowly. 

Finally, after several long moments of looking and touching and feeling just about every inch of Alex, Henry brings him down into a kiss, sighing as his tongue slips past his lips. The metal tongue piercing is always quite the surprise, but never an unwelcome one. Hesitantly, Henry finds himself canting his hips upward, and Alex is right there, returning the favor by grinding down onto him. They continue like that, groaning into each other’s mouths, and Henry feels a bit shaky when they pull apart to properly catch their breath.

“Color?” Alex asks, arms on either side of Henry’s head, hovering over him. With anyone else, he supposes that it might have felt a little bit intimidating. With Alexander, the only thing he ever feels in this sort of moment is protected. Loved. Taken care of.

“Green,” He replies, and the noise of surprise that leaves his mouth when Alex leans down to mark his neck up is soft, yet pronounced.

Alex giggles, pulling away briefly. “Still green, baby?”

“ _Yes_ ,” He whispers in response, resting a hand on the back of his neck. “Please, keep going.”

“How do you need me?” Alex questions, voice is low and velvety as he pecks Henry’s cheek.

“Gentle,” He immediately responds. “I just—“ He sighs, giggling. “I suppose I’m feeling a bit sappy tonight.”

“You’re _always_ feeling a bit sappy,” Alex counters, lips trailing wherever they please— his jawline, his neck, leaving love bites on his neck; it’s sweet, and tender, but there’s an undeniable hunger to it that stokes the flame in his stomach. “It’s one of the things I love most about you.”

“Mmm, and now _you’re_ the sappy one.” Henry points out, spreading his legs when Alex moves out of his lap.

“Maybe just a little,” Alex chuckles, planting a kiss to Henry’s knee before reaching down into one of their travel bags and grabbing the lube and a box of condoms. Their intimate lives are exclusive, but Henry prefers it that Alex uses protection. He’s been on PrEP for a while now, too; feeling safe is his number one priority when it comes to his sex life, and he’s grateful that Alex respects this boundary.

The condoms are set aside for the time being, and Alex is squeezing a generous amount of lubricant from the bottle, coating his fingers in the substance. “I want to use my fingers and mouth on you,” He tells Henry, peering up so that their eyes meet. “Does that sound good, honey?”

Henry nods, his hand taking ahold of Alex’s cock and giving it a few pumps. He definitely enjoys it, judging by the noise that leaves his mouth, so Henry doesn’t stop, increasing in speed and swiping his thumb over the head.

“You’re distracting me,” Alex sighs, and he can’t help but laugh.

“Only a wee bit.” He replies, pulling away, sighing pleasantly when Alex presses one more kiss to his lips before making his way down his body. His lips— and tongue— are absolutely everywhere; Henry can’t help the responding noises of pure desperation that he makes, can’t help the way Alexander makes his heart pound and his legs quiver from nothing more than anticipation.

The first finger is immediately followed by his tongue, and a strangled whine gets caught in his throat. Alex works slowly, grasping his cock in his hand as his tongue moves over the tip in teasing circles, finger moving in and out at a leisurely pace. Things only escalate from there; one finger becomes two, and _God_ , Alex has the most wicked mouth on his own, but that damned metal stud adds just the right amount of pressure, just enough to make him grab at his own hair in an attempt to quell his needy desire.   
  


Henry can feel himself teetering on the edge once a third finger is added, and he tells Alex just as much. What Henry hadn’t anticipated, however, was for Alex to take him into his mouth effortlessly, down to the hilt, and swallow around him multiple times.   
  


“Christ,” He whimpers, his body boiling from the inside out. “Oh, _fuck_ , Alex, _sweetheart—_ “

Alexander moans, and that’s when it comes crashing over him like rough riptide, stealing the breath from his lungs as his hips twitch and buck upwards into Alex’s mouth. 

When he pulls off, Alex has the audacity to smile at Henry, to press kisses to the insides of both thighs. “The look you get on your face when you come is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.” He says, and Christ, help him, Henry doesn’t know what to do with himself, throwing an arm over his eyes.

The bed creaks as Alex moves back up, gently pulling Henry’s arm from his eyes. “I don’t see how you can get flustered so quickly,” He teases, pecking him on the mouth. Henry can taste himself on his lips. It should probably gross him out, but it doesn’t, all things considered.   
  


“Well, I can’t help it, especially not when you talk about the face I make mid-orgasm like you talk about the weather.”

Alex snorts and rolls his eyes. “So dramatic.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

And just like that, they’re both giggling like idiots, all messy kisses and roaming hands. This tends to happen quite often— little moments will happen, and then they both get distracted. Henry doesn’t mind it at all, in fact, he finds that it much of the seriousness out of the whole ordeal, making it a lot less intimidating than it needs to be.

Blindly, he reaches down for the box of condoms. When he finally finds it, he grabs hold of it, fishing one out before tossing it back onto the bed. He tears the wrapper open with his teeth, which puts the most remarkable expression on Alexander’s face, and unrolls the condom onto his dick.

“How,” Alex asks, sounding utterly debauched, even after clearing his throat. “How do you wanna do this?”

Henry wraps his legs around Alex’s waist, pulling him in. “I think everything is perfect as it is right now, don’t you agree?” He asks, his own smile mirroring Alex’s.

“I do,” Alex replies, cupping Henry’s face with one hand. The softness in his eyes is absolutely suffocating.   
  


Henry presses a kiss to the center of his palm, letting rough, scratchy fingers trace along his features until Alex deems himself satisfied with ogling at him like a lovesick fool.

“Color?” Alex murmurs, lips hovering inches away from Henry’s, hands firmly gripping his hips.

He feels his pulse pick up speed. “Green.” He replies, nodding, urging him to continue.

Their lips connect, and Alex pushes in, both of them groaning. They kiss each other through it, being sure to give Henry enough time to adjust before starting back up again. 

If there’s one thing Henry likes about having sex with Alex, it’s the way that he always gives him exactly what he needs. On the rare days when he asks for it rough and mean, Alexander will slam mercilessly into him, until he’s begging to come, to be touched, to be kissed— and he always obliges him.

Tonight, Alex is living up to his word, curious hands and feather-light kisses, rambling ever so sweetly beneath his breath. He tends to have trouble shutting his mind off, and it results in him babbling about whatever comes to mind. It’s cute, usually picks up whenever he starts getting close. Henry can say that they're definitely working on it. 

His vision goes spotty when Alexander slams into his prostate, and he clutches at him like a lifeline. It happens over and over again, absolutely incessant.   
  


“You’re so handsome, baby,” Alex breathes, and they both groan when their bodies meet again. “So, so _good_.”

Henry can feel his breath becoming more and more erratic, his body screaming from the never ending heat, body quivering as his nails dig into the skin of Alex’s back. He’s close, insufferably so, like he needs something to help him get that final push over the edge.

“So fucking _close_ ,” Alex groans. “Come for me baby, wanna feel you.”

And just like that, Henry’s absolutely done for, muffling his noises with the pillows, not wanting anyone to hear him make such humiliating, unholy sounds. Alex finishes a few seconds after he does, letting out a broken groan as his hips stutter senselessly. He can’t help but laugh now, as he comes down from his high. Usually Alex finds joy in teasing him about it, but he doesn’t do that tonight. He’s being asked a million questions as of right now. _How does he feel? Were any boundaries overstepped? Does he need anything?_ The answers to those questions in order are: good but tired, everything was perfect, and a shirt; he tends to get cold quickly. 

They lay together in bed afterwards, oblivious as to what time it is, and to how soon they’ll have to be up again to socialize with the rest of the house. Alexander’s got his face buried in his shoulder, a freshly-socked foot brushing against one of Henry’s bare legs. He still thinks that this is his favorite part; just laying here when they’re done, playing with Alex’s hair and feeling the way his chest swells as he breathes. 

“I love you,” Alex says plainly, as simply as saying the phrase ‘ _good morning’_ , and presses a wet kiss to his collarbone. “So, so much.”

Oh, to love and be loved in return; it still gives Henry butterflies.

He pulls Alex in closer, and kisses the top of his head, inhaling the scents of coconut shampoo and leave-in conditioner. He places a hand in between his shoulder blades. What a magnificent man that he gets to call his own. That he gets to be with, day in and day out. That he gets to laugh with, to weep with, to kiss and curse and pleasure. To love, completely and wholly, with the entirety of his body, mind, and soul.

He’s only known blind infatuation before Alex; _he_ is the love that makes Henry’s world go round.

“I love you, too.” He breathes. “More than anything I’ve ever known.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: @bi-disaster-fsotus


End file.
